


The Hand that Feeds

by Schadenfiend



Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Canon Divergent, Comedy, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, Language Barrier, M/M, Miscommunication, Other, Some Angst For Good Measure, Some Plot, Teratophilia, Xenophilia, just comedy for the readers, murder pudding, smol venom, starts out horror for eddie, venom starts out super smol and cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 02:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16399862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schadenfiend/pseuds/Schadenfiend
Summary: Eddie stumbles upon a jar containing a mysterious, black substance.Against his better judgement, he decides to take it home.





	1. The Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> My work is un-beta'd, so I apologize if there's any glaring spelling or grammatic mistakes. Please enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus art at the end.

 

 

 

“Are you seeing this shit…?”

 

He’s not talking to anyone in particular, per se, but it’s the type of thing one would mutter when confronted with a spectacle so bizarre that there’s nothing else you can really do but voice your disbelief. Which is exactly the kind of sight that Eddie Brock is seeing.

 

He checks his surroundings, unsure if he’s the only one.

 

He is.

 

Eddie takes a cautious step forward toward the small, glass jar next to his motorbike, housing a thick, black substance.

 

_How suspicious._

 

Eddie scratches his neck in confusion. If it were any other jar, he would have assumed it was just ink, or black paint, or even dirty motor oil left next to his bike. He probably would have kicked it away if that were the case.

 

But the peculiarities lay with two crucial facts: the first being that Eddie _swears_ the jar wasn't there when he first parked. He’s usually pretty good about committing his environment to memory.

 

And the second (and stranger one) being that the contents inside the jar appear to be _moving._ And with directional intent too.

 

His bike casts a shadow across the length of the jar, and the substance inside appears to be doing all that they can to stay within the shaded region. The black slime shakes in the jar, twisting and frothing uncomfortably, and on occasion, a piece of itself would shudder and overflow onto the other side which kisses the sunlight, before it quickly rushes back into the darkness.

 

_Is this a joke?_

 

Eddie looks around again, only to see empty streets. He hopes he's not the victim of a twisted prank channel, but he doesn’t see any cameras in his vicinity. He’s not afraid to admit he’s a little bit scared - he’s not that cold, hard-boiled investigator he wishes to be - but he takes a step closer anyway until his body casts its own shadow, completely immersing the jar in the dark.

 

Almost immediately, the liquid relaxes, redistributing their mass to fill the side of the container they were previously avoiding. It was then that Eddie realizes two things: first, this liquid is either alive or has some mannerisms resembling life, and second, this poor creature was being boiled _alive._

 

Eddie bites his lower lip and squats to get a closer look. Surprisingly, the liquid responds likewise, shifting most of their mass toward Eddie as if they were doing the same.

 

“What... are you…?”

 

He reaches out, then hesitates. The possibility of danger finally squeezes it’s way to his consciousness. But curiosity overpowers him and he finally takes the jar into his hand. The jar itself is small and easily occupies a single palm, and unsurprisingly warm after baking in the sunlight.

 

Eddie turns the jar in his hand to face the other way. Curiously, the liquid doesn’t seem to want to change positions as they ripple back to the side of the jar closest to Eddie. He frowns and turns it again, and the contents crawl back to face him. He tips it upside down and away from him, and they defy both his expectations and gravity, plastering themself to Eddie’s side.

 

“Interesting,” he notes. Against his better judgement, he twists the lid open just enough for the _hiss_ of hot moisture to escape before he quickly seals it again. He looks at them through the glass and they appear to be _better,_ with their black, amorphous surface no longer rippling emphatically with discomfort. Instead, they simply pulse organically. Relaxed.

 

Eddie, too, feels relief.

 

He checks his surroundings one last time before placing the jar in one of the pockets of his jacket, then starts up his bike. Eddie’s not sure of what to make of this, but the idea of discovering more makes his chest flutter with excitement.

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie Brock isn’t ashamed to admit his apartment’s a shithole. He gets jobs every now and then, but he still wouldn’t consider that being _employed,_ especially if most of his time is spent looking for work rather than _doing_ work. It’s amazing that he’s able to afford an apartment at all.

 

One day, _he’ll_   become a hot-shot journalist. One day, _he’ll_ be the ones writing the headlines on publications like the Daily Globe, or maybe even Time. One day, _he’ll_   be getting that upgrade in life and no longer needing to live off the kind of food that’s surely shortening his remaining time on earth.

 

But like the trash strewn haphazardly across his apartment that he swears he’ll pick up, that day has yet to come.

 

Even so, Eddie welcomes this new creature into his dump of a home. Of course, he’s not without his reservations and he decides to tread forth with caution.

 

Eddie pulls the jar out of his pocket and eyes his new friend. They pulse oddly, as if discomfited by the shaky ride home, but otherwise seems fine compared to when he first found them. He notes how cramped they must feel inside the jar.

 

“Let’s put you in a bigger home, alright lil’ guy?”

 

He finds a bigger jar. Eddie would have loved to settled for a fishbowl, or even a full tank, but renting and living minimalistically means he’s got no frivolous spending money and he hasn’t had the time to look for something better. The jar, though clean, still has the ghost of its previous tenant still lingering, unmistakably the smell of old pasta sauce. _It’s good enough_ , he supposes, and hopes his new companion wouldn’t mind too much.

 

“Can I let you out? If I transfer you, will you jump out and try to kill me?”

 

The black pudding doesn’t respond unless you count that alien slime wobble as an answer. They don’t even appear to be sentient. Eddie feels his ears burn, suddenly feeling silly in his own apartment.

 

“Um. Okay. Just don’t try to jump at me, please. And -- why… why am I even talking to you?”

 

Eddie takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves, and counts.

 

_One, two, three!_

 

In a few swift motions, Eddie twists the lid off the smaller jar, dumps the creature into the bigger jar, then quickly reseals the new jar as the creature hits the glassy bottom. The creature bounces, but otherwise, they do nothing but continue their placid wobble.

 

Eddie releases his breath and cracks the room with his laughter. He feels like a complete idiot. Why did he get so psyched up for nothing? With a sudden austere clarity, he realizes he’s in dire need of a beer. A cold can of the cheapest shit he can afford, to wash away the taste of a fruitless day.

 

He throws open the fridge and shouts, “you want anything, bud?”

 

He looks back and surprisingly, they’re pressing against the glass in his direction like before.

 

“You want a beer too? Wait, no, that might kill you. Soggy fried chicken? Maybe some of this rice that’s congealed with… uh.”

 

Eddie pulls out the only thing that seems to be impervious to shelf life, which was an untouched chocolate bar he put in by mistake. The texture is all ruined anyway. And if this creature has been baking in the sun, they’re likely malnourished and in dire need of some simple carbs.

 

“How’s this, lil’ buddy?”

 

Eddie unravels the wrapping and breaks off a corner, dangling it above the open jar. A single, weak tendril of slime reaches out to wrap around the confection before retreating back inside. The chocolate gets swallowed into the black pitch as if it never existed.

 

“Huh. Do… you want some more?”

 

He offers them another piece, to which they greedily accept. And another. And another. In a flash of renewed energy, they reach out with a thick limb and snatches Eddie’s outstretched hand.

 

“Woah, woah! Get off! You can have the whole thing!”

 

He swats at the limb and throws the entire bar into the jar. While distracted, Eddie grabs the lid and tries to reseal the container, but the creature pushes back with a newfound strength, unwilling to be caged again.

 

Eddie drops the lid and backs away as horror blossoms before his eyes. The creature pulsates and stretches out as a single slug, stepping out onto the counter like an Eldritch slinky. They twist and turn, first flattening themself across the counter like a puddle of water dispersed by gravity, before their outer edges retracts and coalesces back at the center. From the center of the puddle emerges a small mound the size of a baseball, and then they stop.

 

Eddie’s jaw drops stupidly, flapping in disbelief, as he grips onto a sad-looking frying pan.

 

“Wh… w-what…”

 

Out of nowhere, two white crescents flicker onto the mound. They're unmistakably eyes, and while there are no pupils to indicate direction, Eddie’s certain they’re staring at him.

 

He stares back.

 

“Unbelievable… Are you… are you mad at me? Do you even understand me? I literally just gave you chocolate, you do _NOT_ have the right to glare at me like that!”

 

The mound shifts, as if they were to cock their head to the side in confusion.

 

Eddie swallows and tries again. “What are you?”

 

It’s stupid because Eddie’s sure he’s encountered rats in his building bigger than this thing, but it’s the fear of the unknown that’s making him sweat so profusely. The liquid creature tries to vocalize in response. They form a cavity with their black flesh to draw in air, then they expel it through a pinched opening. But to Eddie, it sounds like nothing else but a _hiss_ that could only be described as threatening.

 

_Think, Eddie, think!_

 

Despite his panic, his brain takes a quick jog down memory lane and finds the lesson he’s been looking for: wolves raise their hackles to danger, birds spread their wings to look bigger than their enemy, and Eddie, too, can puff his chest and raise his arms to intimidate this hissing black creature.

 

And he does so, hunching his back and slowly spreading out his arms.

 

In response, the creature sequesters enough mass from their body to push out two tendrils, spreading them horizontally like poorly rendered limbs. One of the creature’s limbs are longer than the other and ends with a large, bulbous appendage.

 

Eddie almost drops the pan when he realizes that the creature is trying to _mirror_ him. The creature is unable to tell where Eddie’s arm ends and when the pan begins, so they simply assume the entire extrusion is part of the same appendage.

 

Eddie waves the pan up and down.

 

The creature does the same.

 

Eddie drops the pan onto the countertop.

 

The whites of the creature’s eyes widen in confusion, darting back and forth between Eddie and the discarded pan. They hesitate first, before eventually severing the bulbous tip of their limb to let it drop onto the counter. The dismembered bulb eventually rolls back to join the main body.

 

“My god,” Eddie breathes.

 

Eddie still holds his hands in front of him, bracing for a fight.

 

“Look, little murder pudding. Can you _please, please_ get back into the jar? I don’t want to lock you in there forever, but I don’t know what to do with you right now, and I’m honestly about to shit myself.”

 

Eddie gestures weakly toward the jar.

 

The creature gestures weakly back at him.

 

Eddie wheezes in disbelief.

 

At least they seem more inclined to mimic his actions rather than to attack him. He takes a cautious step forward, still raising his arms for battle, but notes that the creature simply does the same, rippling a few inches forward on the counter. Eddie steps forward and stops when his own hands are mere inches away from the creature’s makeshift hands.

 

The creature stares at Eddie, awaiting his next move.

 

_… What if?_

 

Eddie closes the distance, touching the tip of his index finger to the tip of one of the creature’s outstretched limb. It’s a weird, alien remix of the Creation of Adam.

 

The creature doesn’t seem to be hostile. In fact, they eventually retract their limbic protrusions and regathers themself into an oblong sphere, allowing Eddie to brush the tip of his fingers against their main body.

 

_It’s wet,_ he notes, _but doesn’t leave any residue_.

 

Eddie’s fingers rub the top of the mound in gentle, circular motions, noting how his fingers submerge into the creature on occasion, like water, before being pushed back out. The creature’s eyes curiously dart back and forth between Eddie and his fingers, but otherwise seems okay with his ministrations. Their liquid surface ripples under his touch. Eddie’s unable to determine if it’s supposed to signal affection or contempt, or something else altogether.

 

“You are the weirdest looking dog I’ve ever met,” he laughs.

 

The creature closes their eyes as if sated by the gentle caresses.

 

“You’re strangely cute. Terrifying, yes, but in an ugly-cute kind of way. I like you.”

 

As if taking his words as a signal, the creature reacts, clinging to Eddie’s finger in an attempt to climb up his arm. Eddie pulls back immediately.

 

“No, no, no!” he shouts, swatting the back the tendrils back to free his hand. “Bad pudding! Bad!”

 

The creature’s eyes narrow back into the jagged crescents, and suddenly, they _lunge_.

 

As they clear the space between Eddie and the countertop, Eddie quickly reaches for the discarded pan from behind and -

 

_\-- THWUNK!_

 

He sends the creature flying across the room, splattering against the wall of his dirty apartment. Eddie Brock raises his arms in victory, and shouts:

 

“Eddie-fucking-Brock knocks it out of the park! Yeah! Wait -”

 

He quickly grabs the jar before rushing over the slime, which has fallen to the ground like a lifeless puddle. Seemingly stunned, Eddie scoops the creature into his hand and works them back into a ball before tossing them back into the jar, sealing the cap tightly.

 

He slumps against the floor in disbelief.

 

“Wow,” he sighs, “what on earth am I supposed to do with you?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. The Query

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, goddammit, I said EVENTUAL fluff but apparently, everyone thinks this is cute as hell already, so I guess I've failed as a story teller.
> 
> *shrugs*
> 
> Bonus art at the bottom again.

 

 

 

 

_Nope._

 

 

_Nah._

 

 

_Nuh uh._

 

 

_Backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace…_

 

Eddie grits his teeth in frustration.

 

_This is stupid._

 

He’s been at it for hours, but the origins of his new roommate remain elusive. There’s no search term he can think of that accurately describes the mystery of the creature in the jar. He’s accidentally discovered a niche genre of fetish porn, sure, but none of the hits pertain to non-fictional slime creatures.

 

~~_(He may or may not have bookmarked a few of those websites for further investigation at another time... though this fact remains in speculation.)_ ~~

 

The closest he’s come to finding something similar would be slime molds: creeping, ameboid organisms that act similarly to his new friend in that they can break off pieces and re-coalesce at will. He’s watched several videos of these organisms travelling across surfaces in search for new resources, reaching out with strange limbs until they find purchase in something useful. Eddie thought he nailed it for sure -- especially with the ameboid motions and fluidity of the slime molds _so similar_ to that of the creature he’s found -- but this notion came to a standstill when he realizes he’s been watching timelapses.

 

There’s a distinct lack of deadpan, pupil-less eyes that makes him question his convictions too. So much for that.

 

 

“Augh.” He groans and closes his laptop. It’s already well into the night, and the pangs in his stomach remind him that he hasn’t eaten at all.

 

He peeks at the creature and notices them swirling in the jar like a self-contained whirlpool. Eddie scrunches his nose.

 

“Hey.” He taps on the jar. “What are you doing, bud? Why’re you so restless?”

 

The creature slows their swirling, and their eyes materialize from the darkness to blink blearily at Eddie.

 

“Are you hungry? Hmm, how often am I supposed to feed you?”

 

They stare at him.

 

“God, why didn’t you come with a manual? Okay, okay. I’ll go get us some food.”

 

He slips on his jacket and grabs his bag and keys. Eddie’s on the verge of leaving, standing by the door when an idea dawns on him. He hesitates, but he pulls out his phone in the end and finds the contact he’s been looking for.

 

His last message to Anne was sent months ago.

 

His chest immediately tightens just looking at the conversation history. He’s in luck because at least the last few messages ended cordially. But if he were to scroll up to read more…

 

Eddie bites his lower lip in rumination, forcing himself to stop. _Do not scroll up. Do_ **_not_ ** _scroll up._ The wounds have barely even scabbed over, and he’s not willing to reconnect with the ache. Tapping on her name was questionable enough as is.

 

Even now, the sensible part of his brain is shrieking, telling him to stop, _it’s a bad idea, he shouldn’t, he shouldn't,_ but…

 

It’s the feeling of a rare opportunity presenting itself, even if it’s misguided.

 

 

 

Eddie cringes.

 

Those, he admits, were poorly curated words for reviving a dead conversation. And now he feels stupid. Unfortunately, the messages have already been sent, and Eddie quickly shoves the phone back into his pocket.

 

As he fiddles with the keys to his apartment, Eddie hears the quiet _clink_ of glass tapping against wood. Turning back, his mouth goes dry when he sees the creature tossing itself against the side of the jar closest to him, causing the jar to wobble closer and closer to the table’s edge with each successive throw.

 

“Hey, stop that!” Eddie dives and catches the jar right before it hits the floor. “Buddy, you have a death wish or something? I know you’re kind of clingy, but you don’t need to get my attention in such a self-destructive way.”

 

Eddie hugs the jar in his arms, meeting the creature’s eyes.

 

The creature stares back curiously.

 

He feels his cheeks burn when he realizes the absurdity of the situation.

 

“Uh, right. Let’s go. We can walk this time, okay? I know you don’t like the rumble from the bike.”

 

Eddie pockets the jar and leaves.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Groceries are a luxury that Eddie finds himself often lacking. And while he supposes he could continue to feed the creature chocolate as he did initially, he figures that if he’s no longer just cooking for one, he may as well put more effort into his diet.

 

And like every goddamn pet owner in the city, he cares more about _their_ health than his own.

 

There aren’t many markets still open so late at night, and Eddie’s out of breath by the time he makes it to the door. A blast of conditioned air hits his face, and suddenly, he's vividly aware of how light his wallet feels. Regardless, he shuts down the voice of frugality echoing in his head and makes his way inside.

 

Where does one even begin?

 

The creature is, without a doubt, unlike any of the standard domesticated animals he’s used to seeing. Otherwise, the pet aisle would have been the first choice, which would’ve been almost _too_ easy. But no, as he recalls it, the creature is likely starved of nutrition and needs some snacks that are rich in easy carbs. Chocolates were a good first choice, so he makes his way to the candy section and grabs a few more bars.

 

What about protein?

 

Eddie holds the jar in front of the open refrigerators of the dairy section.

 

“What about eggs, murder pudding? You like eggs?”

 

The creature stares at Eddie and blinks, not quite understanding his tone.

 

Eddie shrugs and adds a dozen to his cart. He takes a moment to squeeze his biceps and notes that they’re missing the vitality they once had. He’s been neglecting his own body, and it surprises him to finally realize the true extent of it -- only _after_ adopting a jar of sentient soy sauce.

 

A large jar of pasta sauce gets thrown in next -- its a two-in-one investment in case the creature ever needs an even bigger home at some point in the future. He grabs a pack of marinated chicken breasts and a few more things, and he’s finally ready to go home.

 

Like an odd couple, Eddie and the creature roll up to an exhausted looking cashier, who scans the items like she wants to go home.

 

“That’ll be 43.97,” she says, emanating exhaustion from her demeanor.

 

Eddie palms his wallet and fishes out his last bill. He still has a bit of savings left over from the last time he had consistent work, but those savings are dwindling fast and he barely has any cash left on hand. He worries his lower lip, missing the halcyon days of his childhood when financial burdens were non-existent.

 

Still, _it’s a one-time, experimental purchase_ , he reassures himself as he passes the bill to the cashier who punches it into the machine. As he’s in the process of depositing the groceries into his backpack, the cashier interrupts him.

 

“Uh huh. Honey, did you want me to ring that up too?”

 

He’s caught off guard. “What?”

 

“That.” Her poorly manicured nail cuts across his vision. “ _That._ ”

 

Eddie’s eyes widen in horror when he realizes the cashier is pointing to the creature occupying the children’s seat of his cart.

 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he croaks. “No, uh, that’s alright.”

 

“So you don’t want it?”

 

“Actually, it’s mine. It’s not from the store.”

 

“Let me see it.”

 

His eyes dart back and forth between the woman's outstretched hand and the creature.

 

“... No?”

 

She narrows her eyes.

 

He sweats.

 

The woman reaches over the counter to grab the jar, and simultaneously, Eddie knocks away her hand. But the motion itself is enough to rattle the cart into startling the creature, and their crescent eyes precipitate onto their liquid surface. The cashier, suddenly noticing the newly formed spectral eyes, backs away and _screams._

 

“S-SECURITY!!”

 

“What, seriously?!”

 

She reaches for the pager.

 

_Fuck._

 

He’s shouting now. “I told you, it's not even from this store!”

 

Eddie’s heart is racing as he shoves the rest of his purchases into his bag. He grabs the jar, too, and tosses it into his pocket, and he’s out the door by the time security arrives.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I can’t believe you got us banned.”

 

Eddie laughs hysterically while unpacking his bag. He's a bit winded and sticky, with sweat plastering his hair to his forehead from the exertion. And yet somehow, he’s unable to find the situation anything less than hilarious.

 

“I can't believe you got us banned _AND_ I didn't get my change back.”

 

By the time he finishes unloading his haul, it’s already midnight and Eddie’s too lazy to cook. But still, he refuses to neglect the nutritional necessities of his new friend. Eddie’s known that the moment he decided to pocket the mysterious jar next to his bike was the moment he became accountable for their well-being.

 

Still, the prospect of reopening the jar scares him shitless.

 

“Okay,” he voices to himself, “this is fine. This is fine.”

 

He runs his diaphoretic hands down his pants to dry them. The creature in the jar stares at Eddie, awaiting his next move. Their fluid surface ripples organically with anticipation.

 

“This is fine,” he repeats, one more time for good measure. As if that mantra is enough to soothe his terror-stricken nerves.

 

Eddie wills himself to move but remains rooted at the spot. The creature, impatient with Eddie's indecision, begins to swirl in the jar again, like a dog chasing its own tail.

 

“Hey, quit it. Why do you keep doing that? Seriously, what does it mean? Are you angry or happy? Hungry? Horny?”

 

The creature relents and faces Eddie again, and he sighs.

 

“God, I get it, alright? No need to be so judgmental. Just give me a sec.”

 

Eddie prepares. He arranges each food item into a row on his counter top, and he cuts off a small piece of each to try on the creature. For good measure, he procures the sad-looking pan from before and sets it within an arm’s reach. Seeing the creature’s eyes dilate in response at least assures him that the creature has not forgotten about it.

 

“Well, we already know you like this one, but let’s just try it again for our official records, Mister Puddington.”

 

Eddie twists off the lid and dangles one square of chocolate above the opening. As before, the creature reaches out with a single tendril and drags the piece back into their body. It disappears into the void as if it never existed. Eddie makes a mental note of that while munching on a piece of chocolate himself.

 

Next, Eddie dangles a small section of celery over the edge. The creature probes at it with another tendril, cautiously feeling the foreign texture before they bring it inside the jar. Eddie hears a single _crunch_ before they violently eject the piece from their body. It smacks against the wall behind Eddie, narrowly missing his head.

 

“Hey! You don’t have to attack me just ‘cause you’re not a fan of vegetables.”

 

The creature narrows their eyes, then swirls away defiantly.

 

“Why you--! You deserve constipation for that, you butt-sludge.”

 

The creature expels air in an alien _hiss,_ and Eddie rolls his eyes.

 

He continues down the list, helping himself to some of the food items as well.

 

  * _Bread: no._


  * _Potato chips: yes._


  * _Eggs: a raw and crunchy, shell-filled yes._


  * _Tomatoes: clearly, a vehement no._


  * _Tomato-based pasta sauce: a surprisingly enthusiastic yes?_



 

Finally, Eddie gets to the small portion of chicken breast. He holds it above the opening, and a tendril emerges to palpate the marinated poultry. Unlike the other foods, the tendril retreats back into the jar without accepting the offering.

 

“Hu--”

 

Suddenly, a gaping maw with needle-sharp teeth emerges from the blackness, and Eddie drops the portion just before they snap his fingers clean off.

 

“AAHHH!”

 

As if suddenly awoken from a haze, the creature’s body boils over the edge of their meagre confinement, twisting and bubbling like an unholy abomination. More and more tendrils emerge to palpate their surroundings for more of the chicken meat, spreading across the counter in a wicked sea of black. Eddie backs away and grabs the pan, fanning it threateningly over the creature.

 

“Do you see! Why it freaks me out! When you do that clingy thing to my arm!?”

 

Fortunately, the creature retreats back into the jar as soon as they find the rest of the chicken breast to take with them. Eddie dives forth with the lid to reseal the creature, and he slumps against the wall in disbelief.

 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I can’t -- _what --_ ”

 

He grabs his phone and thumbs to the conversation he’s looking for --

 

 

\-- and he immediately feels the rush of adrenaline drain from his body.

 

_Oh._

 

He pauses and feels the corners of his lips inadvertently twitch downward.

 

_It’s fine, she probably just hasn’t seen it yet._

 

Eddie swallows hard and runs his free hand through his hair. He… _he's going to check again later,_ and he lays his phone face-down on the counter.

 

But back at the present moment, Eddie turns to face the jar still sitting where he left it. To his absolute horror, the creature appears to be missing. He squats low to examine it more closely, and… he finally locates the primordial ooze, which has flattened their body (to the best of their ability) to the underside of the lid. The grain of their body has changed to an uneasy, geometric pattern -- like microscopic hairs fluttering in waves against the wind.

 

 _They’re terrified,_ he realizes.

 

 _Terrified of_ **_him._**

 

He drops the pan as soon as he notices himself still wielding it.

 

“Oh fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to threaten you like that.”

 

Eddie gentle picks up the jar and cradles it in his arms, muttering to it in a quiet tone. “Jeez, I don’t know how I became the bad guy in this after you almost bit my fingers off, but I’m sorry for scaring you. Even though you scare the shit out of me constantly.”

 

The creature’s lunette eyes materialize back onto their body to watch Eddie with caution.

 

“I… I just had no idea you had teeth, or even a mouth to begin with. Just figured you drowned everything with your creepy body and absorbed it afterward, that’s all. ”

 

Strangely re-assured by his coaxing tone, the creature slowly detaches from the underside of the lid and resettles their mass to the rest of the jar’s interior. Their body undulates leisurely as before, with the alarm-texture gone.

 

“There you are, murder pudding.”

 

The creature’s teeth emerge from the pitch, and they stick their tongue out. Eddie snorts, noticing the subtle nacre sheen in their eyes.

 

“... It’s honestly not fair how you can look so cute yet menacing at the same time.”

 

An unexpected yawn overtakes him, and Eddie suddenly finds himself too fatigued to continue.

 

“Guess we should hit the hay… ”

 

Eddie checks the clock on his lock screen one last time. With exhaustion dragging every step, he slowly puts away the groceries into his fridge, puttering quietly with age. He relegates the last of his strength to carry the jar with him as he makes his way to his bed, with indifference taking precedence over any pre-bedtime rituals. The bed - _his_ bed - is nothing but a worn-out spring mattress on a noisy metal frame, but he’s too tired to care.

 

He wraps his weak body in his blanket and squeezes his eyes shut, clinging helplessly to the jar.

 

“Good night,” he whispers to the creature in his arms.

 

Eddie exhales as a harrowing sentiment encases his chest. Soon enough, sleep overtakes him, and as he shifts between the realm of conscious and unconsciousness, he realizes a sad, inexorable truth: there’s an unspoken connection between himself and the creature, in a way that only the most misguided creatures can relate.

 

Because like himself, the creature is also all alone.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> it's ya boi!! murder pudds for breakfast!


	3. The Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HECK
> 
> Okay seriously, props to [Rehlia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehlia/pseuds/Rehlia) for helping me beta this chapter. Never had a beta before, so thank you so much! Erryone please give her smooches. 
> 
> Also, obligatory trigger warning: mental health, depression

 

 

 

 

Those ephemeral moments between wakefulness and being truly awake are blessings. When he’s no longer at the mercy of his subconscious, but still protected from the harsh realities of the waking mind.

 

Present, with gentle morning sunlight kissing his eyelids, the softness of bedsheets cradling his body, and in his arms is the one person he cares for most, holding so closely, _so closely..._

 

He reaches out to run his fingers through her silky hair, to brush it carelessly behind her ear. He hears her laughter. Feels her smile against his cheek. Feels her delicate fingers entwine between his own. He feels the proximity between two beings, in a type of harmony that cannot be breached by the outside world. Perfectly encapsulated by their respective foils, moulding over each other’s cracks and fissures to become… whole.

 

Complete.

 

 

 

And just like that, it’s over.

 

He awakens to find his face crushed against a jar. Eddie’s eyes flutter open to meet the creature’s nacre crescents staring back at him.

 

“... Oh. You’re still here.”

 

He blinks until his vision refocuses, but his fatigue makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.

 

“Augh…”

 

Eddie’s head hurts.

 

He’s discomfited by the feeling of having dreamt about something important, but he’s unable to recall its nature and it leaves a harrowing feeling in the pit of his stomach. His mouth, on the other hand, feels like a rat’s entire family decided to inhabit his mouth together, then all subsequently died a week later. He gags a bit at the taste of his own breath and regrets not brushing his teeth the night prior. Eddie's muscles throb from sleeping on a mattress that feels more like a concrete slab with cotton padding, and even more so after a night of rest with his arms wrapped around a jar.

 

He taps his phone screen, which illuminates to tell him it’s already past 10 in the morning. Being able to sleep in is one of the few benefits of unemployment, but that’s where the benefits end. The dim gloom of melancholy clouds looming outside his apartment makes the world look desaturated and grey. It’s nearly impossible for Eddie to start his day, and it takes everything in his power to not curl in on himself with his blanket wrapped around tighter.

 

There’s no snooze button to hit when he feels he has no reason to wake up.

 

Feels like _he_ has no purpose either.

 

But still, he forces himself to get up each day. Staying in bed all day only exacerbates the misery, especially when he realizes how much time he has already wasted wallowing, and he doesn’t feel inclined to waste some more.

 

“Are you the type of creature I’m supposed to bring out to pee…?” Eddie yawns and rubs his eyes.

 

The creature mimics Eddie, stretching open their maw to let out a puff of air, which draws an inadvertent smile to Eddie’s lips.

 

“Heh. C’mon, bud. Let’s start our day.”

 

Finally, Eddie rolls out of bed and stretches, hearing his joints pop audibly as his muscles slide against each other and lose their stiffness. From the corner of his eye, he sees the creature, and stops mid-stretch when he realizes they are occupying more of the interior of the jar than the night before. Not enough to outgrow their accommodations, but enough for it to be noticeable.

 

“Shit, did you get a bit bigger?”

 

The creature’s opalescent eyes widen at his tone.

 

“Oh god, how much bigger are you gonna get? Is your growth proportional to how much food I give you? Oh fuck.”

 

Eddie rubs his temples in consternation. The creature hasn’t outgrown their home yet, but it makes sense that giving the creature a slab of chicken means means it would gain mass in proportion to that. _Input, output,_ he supposes, but he’s not the type of person who would force his growing friend onto a diet.

 

Eddie sighs and pops in his spiritual enlightenment audiobook (not the Mandarin meditation Ms. Chen suggested - which has now been repurposed into a coaster) into his stereo, then he heads to his dilapidated bathroom with the jar in hand. Eckhart Tolle’s words drone pleasantly in the backdrop:

 

_… “Am I one or two? If I cannot live with myself, there must be two of me: the ‘I’ and the ‘self’ that ‘I’ cannot live with….”_

 

Eddie places the creature at the edge of the sink and worries himself with dental hygiene. As he scrubs away the bad taste, he starts to feel a bit more like a human being again - a slightly dysfunctional member of society, but a member nonetheless. Though as to why he cares, while still being tossed between the precipice of employment and homelessness, is a question he's unable to answer.

 

As he brushes away, he notices the creature fidgeting in the corner of his eye. The creature has their teeth bared, imitating Eddie by rubbing a tendril across their fangs. Eddie stops and removes the toothbrush from his mouth.

 

“Uh… Did you wanna brush your teeth too?”

 

The creature stops as well and removes the tendril from their teeth. Eddie sees a slimy green substance being secreted around their mouth and flinches in some measure of disgust.

 

“Ookay, soy boy. Let’s see if I have a spare brush.”

 

Eddie flips open the medicine cabinet and locates the spare brush. He rinses it once under water, then squeezes a generous dollop of minty paste onto the bristles before opening the creature’s jar.

 

“Don’t attack me, ‘kay?”

 

The eyes of the creature widen, like a child seeing a new toy.

 

“Here ya go, Puddington.”

 

As the creature reaches out gingerly, Eddie gets a waft of - _yup, that’s the smell of rotting meat._  As if awaiting directions, the creature stares at him with the toothbrush in hand. Eddie demonstrates, rubbing the bristles of own toothbrush onto his teeth until it foams, and the creature follows in suite.

 

The creature seems surprised at the strange mintiness, but otherwise doesn’t seem offended by the taste.

 

“You gotta clean your tongue too, bud. That’s where most of the smell comes from. And if I’m being real here, your breath smells like ass.”

 

Like Eddie, the creature extrudes their long, dextrous tongue and starts to scrub it with their brush. Eddie cups a handful of water from the tap, bringing his hand to his mouth to swish and spit. Likewise, the creature stretches themself like a snake, propping themself over the edge of the jar to extend a cup-shaped limb under the flowing tap. They bring the water to their mouth and swishes, following Eddie’s demonstration.

 

The moment Eddie turns to look at the creature, they spit the water at his face.

 

“YOU RUDE SON OF A--"

 

Eddie retaliates by cupping more water into his hand and whipping it back at the creature’s face. In response, creature absorbs the water on their amorphous skin to sequester each droplet back to their mouth, generating another mouthful to spit back at Eddie.

 

“GYAAAAH!”

 

Suddenly, his cell phone rings. Still soaked with alien spittle, Eddie runs to grab his cell phone left on his bed. He doesn’t recognize the number - _could it be Anne on a new phone?_ Eddie’s heart drums as he picks it up.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi! May I speak to Edward Brock?”

 

Eddie deflates. _So not Anne, then._

 

“Yeah, speaking.”

 

“Oh, hello Edward! My name is Diane, and I’m calling from Star Chronicles. How are you today, Edward?”

 

“Er, not too bad. And it’s Eddie, please.”

 

“That’s great to hear, Edward!”

 

Eddie winces.

 

“So, I’m calling you today because I’ve reviewed your application you sent in a few weeks ago.”

 

“Oh… yeah?” His eyebrows furrow with confusion. (He doesn’t remember sending in a job application – though, chances are that a few weeks ago, he was too drunk with misery to recall the types of establishments he sent his resume to.)

 

“Yeah! There’s an opening at Star Chronicles that needs to be filled immediately, so we would like to invite you for an interview. Will you have time today to make it to our office?”

 

Eddie chokes. “Y-yeah? I… I can do that! What time do you want me in?”

 

“Can you make it in an hour?”

 

Eddie is already scrambling for a clean pair of trousers as he answers.

“Yes!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Eddie’s wearing a tie. A goddamn tie.

 

The last time this tie has seen the light of day was over a year ago, back when…

 

He shakes his head, banishing the thought. Because right now, he’s a man on a mission to grasp the opportunity given to him.

 

He rolls through the streets on his motorcycle wearing the only dry-cleaned blazer he owns under a leather jacket. Meanwhile, the creature’s jar is strapped precariously to the handlebars of his bike in case they fall out of his pocket. Eddie didn’t have the luxury of time to create anything better, so he had to MacGyver an old basket, poorly attached to his bike with some zip ties. Not the most elegant of solutions, but it's good enough.

 

Eddie feels a sense of responsibility to keep the creature close to his person at all times. It’s a pretty clear cut case of separation anxiety, it seems. Especially with the way they began to twist and froth violently in their jar when he tried to leave the apartment without them. But to be fair, the idea of leaving the creature alone in his home also terrifies him.

 

By the time Eddie arrives downtown, his helmet has misted over from the light drizzle, and his clothes are uncomfortably damp. Still, he manages to make it to the office with an extra 5 minutes to spare. Eddie parks his bike and detaches the creature from the handle bars.

 

“Wish me good luck, murder puds. If I land this, it can mean the difference between having cereal or steak for breakfast, every day."

 

He ponders for a second.

 

“Scratch that, it’s more like steak maybe once every other week if we’re lucky, and not even the good cuts. Who am I kidding? Writers don’t get paid enough.”

 

The creature blinks and twirls in the jar, clearly not understanding a single word.

 

Eddie shrugs. “Good enough.”

 

He pockets the creature and turns his gaze to his destination. The building where the office of Star Chronicles resides is by no means impressive. Perhaps it once was, many decades ago, when it used to tower above all the other buildings in its vicinity. But compared to the new skyscrapers that bite into the sky like concrete teeth, the building before him stands much shorter, with neglect burnishing every corner. Still, there’s a sense of historical charm that makes Eddie feel less intimidated by the interview to come.

 

The moment he steps inside, he immediately feels the humid warmth causing his clothing to cling to his skin. The reception area is small, with nothing but a well-kept rubber plant next to an empty desk. Eddie has no time to admire the humble decor, so he quickly takes the elevator to the 7th floor as he was instructed to over the phone.

 

When the elevator opens, the scene that blossoms before him is not as he expects it to be.

 

Star Chronicles looks and feels as if a landmine once exploded in the office. And rather than picking up the refuse and reorganizing the office from scratch, the workers simply adapted and started building _around_ the mess. It’s an open concept office, which means that the contents of each cubicle spill out into the communal space like a collective hurricane. Instead of being thrown out, there are dated, out-of-order computers and printers being used as stands for newer electronics. Dehydrated plants seem to line every corner of the office as if someone with a green thumb used to work there, but had subsequently quit and it has never been the same since.

 

Eddie feels his head reeling. Suddenly, he feels as if being soaked for his interview is the least of his worries.

 

“Hey!”

 

Eddie follows the nasally voice and finally notices a petite woman sitting in front of him on a swivel chair, as if she rolled away from her desk just to greet him.

 

“Hey,” he responds.

 

“You okay? You look lost.”

 

Eddie closes the jaw he inadvertently left gaping. “Uhm, yeah. My name is Eddie Brock. I have an interview with Diane today.”

 

The way she perks up is unnerving. “Oh, yes! Fresh blood! Come with me, I’ll bring you to her office.”

 

“Thanks,” he breathes, wishing she phrased that a little better.

 

Eddie follows the woman who continues to lead the way, scooting on her swivel chair without ever getting up. She moves slowly enough for Eddie to take in more of the chaotic surroundings: someone’s cat with spilled kitty litter on the outdated, vinyl flooring; sun-bleached posters and newspaper clippings decorating the walls in lieu of wallpaper; a set of iron dumbbells, not unlike the ones he has at his own apartment; a nativity scene with the faces of each wise men chewed off by the aforementioned cat; an expensive looking coffee maker that is surprisingly out of place given the dated atmosphere; and more neglected plants.

 

When he finally reaches Diane’s office, her door is already open. He sees her, an animated woman with short black hair, having an extremely titillating conversation with someone on the phone, so he knocks on the doorframe. She waves him in without missing a beat.

 

The nasally voice of his guide trills from behind. “Good luck, Eddie!”

 

By the time Eddie turns to face her, the petite woman is already scooting back to her desk on her swivel chair. Eddie sighs and enters the room. He sits in the chair that Diane gestures to on the other side of her desk, just as she finishes her conversation.

 

“Okay hun, I have to go. I’ve got a meeting right now.”

 

Eddie smiles awkwardly, unsure of what to do as she continues.

 

“I’ll call you back later, you bad bitch. Love you. No, you! No, I love _you_ more! Okay bye, hun.”

 

Diana slams her cell phone onto the table.

 

“God, I fucking hate that bitch! I hope she gets hit by a fucking bus!”

 

Eddie is speechless. She turns to him and smiles innocently.

 

“Hello! Edward Brock, is it?”

 

“Yeah? You can call me Eddie?”

 

“Lovely! My name is Diane, and it’s such a wonderful pleasure to meet you, Edward!”

 

“Uh, you too, Diane.”

 

Eddie shakes her outstretched hand, because it’s the only way he knows how to respond as he recovers from proverbial whiplash.

 

“So!”

 

“So.”

 

“So! I’ve looked over your application this morning! And I have to say, Edward, I’m _extremely_ impressed with your work!”

 

Eddie feels the tips of his ears burn. “Thank you.”

 

“Seriously! I didn’t think it was possible for someone to have so little experience while being able to write _this beautifully._ So bold! So emotional! So captivating! Such an inspiring journalist, you are!”

 

“I try my best,” he replies nonchalantly, with only the gentle blush on his cheeks betraying how flustered he feels from her praise. He knows she’s simply buttering him up, but even Eddie’s not immune to the blatant flattery.

 

“So, tell me Edward, what’s your availability? What other obligations do you have?”

 

Eddie palms the jar in his pocket, rolling it in his hand as he contemplates an answer. “… None, really,” he finally admits, cringing at how desperate he sounds.

 

In retrospect, he realizes that it’s not in his best interest to seem as if he really needs this offer, especially when Star Chronicles appears to be at the bottom of the barrel as far as periodicals go. _They need him,_ not because of his talents, but because of their obviously high turnover rate.

 

“Excellent! In that case, I have a wonderful position to offer you…”

 

Eddie perks up, surprised by how quickly this interview is progressing.

 

“A position as our new gossip columnist!”

 

_… What?_

 

Eddie stares at Diane with no discernable expression.

 

“Gossip,” he repeats.

 

“ _Oof_ , I can tell by that look on your face that not a fan of that word, are you? How about culture? _Ooor,_ hm, how about entertainment?”

 

The corners of Eddie’s mouth twitch downward. “There.. must be some sort of mistake.”

 

Eddie feels his heart heave in his chest.

 

This isn’t… this isn’t what he was expecting when he first got the call. He spent years in school training to become an investigative journalist. Years spent studying to expose corruption; to fight crimes with his words; to let his voice pave the way for justice, and to illuminate the unjust.

 

_Not write about some rich asshole's nip slip over the weekend._

 

Eddie feels himself shrinking. He already feels like he _has no purpose_ in life, but becoming a gossip columnist isn’t exactly the type of purpose he was looking for.

 

She smiles sweetly at him.

 

He stares back with unwavering confusion.

 

She smiles some more.

 

He mouths a silent “ _what?”_

 

Diane’s saccharine façade finally drops.

 

“Look, Edward.”

 

“It’s Eddie—”

 

“Look, Eddie, Edward, whatever. I don’t care.” She runs her fingers through her fringe, smoothing out her hair. “You know the person I was on the phone with? That was Eliza, the bitch who just quit last night. The bitch who’s job I’m dangling over your head right now. Didn’t even give me two weeks. She just suddenly! Up and left the country for some punk and told me about it afterward.”

 

“That’s pretty inconsiderate,” Eddie agrees.

 

“Two weeks! That’s all I could have asked for. Two weeks of basic human decency while I looked for a replacement, before she goes off to greener pastures to eat and shit for her rest of her life, you know?”

 

“Yeah–”

 

“But, like, I get it. I really do. She’s been around this block a few times. She’s seen some shit. Written up even more shit. She’s got a wealth of experience, so now she can pick and choose the best shit from the finest of shitholes as she damn well pleases. Eliza’s a real princess!”

 

“Yeah,” he mutters.

 

“But _you_ on the other hand!”

 

He’s caught off guard. “Me?”

 

“Yes, you! To think that you’re still so green behind the ears. I can tell just by looking at you and the way you carry yourself that you’ve got hope and aspirations filled to the brim and bursting out of your asshole! And I’ve gotta admit, I like that spirit of yours!”

 

“I--“

 

“Because the truth is, Edward Brock. The realest of all truths is that you're talented, and you can fluff up your resume as you please, but there's months and months worth of employment gaps that no amount of gentle language can hide. Because at the end of the day, aspirations don’t mean shit, and _you_ need this gig more than we need you.”

 

_No, I don’t,_ is what he wants to say. But he doesn’t want to sound like a petulant child so Eddie keeps his mouth shut.

 

Diane takes the silence as a cue to continue.

 

“So how are those hopes and aspirations working out for you?”

 

Eddie doesn’t have an answer. Diane giggles at his silence.

 

“But the good news is: no one stays as a gossip columnist forever, sweetheart. It’s a stepping stone for something better, and here you are, just trying to get your foot in the door. But know this: you’re not better than this gig. The truth is, _no one_ is better than this.”

 

And Eddie realizes it’s true. He grits his teeth at the harsh reality and feels it burning him from the inside out. He’s _not_ better than this position, even if it breaks him to admit it. It’s embarrassing, it’s degrading, but when there’s only so many notches left on his belt to tighten, he has little to no choice.

 

He rolls the jar in his pocket and recalls the conversation he had earlier with murder pudding about the steaks. Eddie sighs, resetting the nerves that pluck furiously at his heart, separating his true self from his egoic mind. A quiet submission settles in his chest.

 

He opens his mouth. “I’ll –”

 

“Ah, ah, ah, sweetheart.” Diane tuts her fingers in front of his face and turns back to her cellphone. “No need to answer me now, hun. Go home and think on it. Sleep on it. Eat a nice meal. Maybe even jerk off on it, n’aw mean? Call me back tomorrow and let me know your answer after you’ve gotten it all figured out, honey. Okay?”

 

“… Okay,” is all he manages. “Thank you for your time.”

 

“No problem, sweetie! Careful on your way out, I think Mister Meatloaf has spilled his kitty litter again.”

 

“Will do.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Eddie feels a bit dazed as he steps out of her office. He contemplates as he absentmindedly kneels to pet Mister Meatloaf before reaching the elevator. He waves goodbye to the first employee that he met and steps inside. The rest of the journey is a bit of a blur, as his mind is too preoccupied with thoughts on his decision.

 

Before he realizes it, Eddie is already back at home, soaking wet from the rain but at least in the confines of his apartment. He takes some time to unload, emptying his pockets before shedding off his waterlogged jacket.

 

“So I should do it, right?”

 

The creature’s lunette eyes widen at his question.

 

“I mean, I haven’t had any other responses so far. I can quit anytime? And if I ever feel my soul leaving my body while doing this job, at least you can feast on my lifeless carcass. I guess everyone wins in the end.”

 

The creature spins in the jar, as if pleased by this prospect.

 

Eddie thumbs through his phone, reflecting on his thoughts. His thumb wavers precariously over the call icon next to Diane’s number. He’s already made up his mind, hasn’t he?

 

But to reply so quickly seems... desperate.

 

Instead, he hits the back key a few times until he opens up the conversation he would rather be having.

 

 

He frowns.

 

He shouldn’t.

 

_He really shouldn’t._

 

It’s a goddamn stupid idea and he _really, really shouldn’t._

 

He…

 

He hits the dial icon anyway.

 

The phone only rings three times, but time seems to slow to a halt, stretching and stretching as if aeons seem to pass between each beat of his heart.

 

He gets to the fourth ring, and -- _It’s stupid, it was a mistake_ , _why the fuck did he do this --_ when --

 

“Eddie?”

 

“Anne!”

 

_He regrets this decision immediately._

 

“Er, hey, Eddie. What’s… up.” She doesn’t sound too enthused.

 

“Not much! I just, uh, wanted to see how you’re doing.”

 

Her voice is strained. “I’m… fine. What about yourself?”

 

“I’m do- doing great.”

 

“Great!”

 

There’s an awkward lull in the conversation, and Eddie presses forward to occupy the silence. “Oh! I also got a job offer today, by the way.”

 

“Congratulations, Eddie! I hope it’s a good one.”

 

“Yeah! It’s for an… entertainment periodical,” he groans.

 

“That sounds fun!”

 

The silence fills his ears again. He thinks he hears her cough quietly from behind the static.

 

“Eddie…" she finally manages. "We can’t do this. I’ve met someone new.”

 

“Oh.”

 

 

 

He feels something break inside and doesn’t know how to respond.

 

He goes quiet.

 

He’s been quiet for too long.

 

 

 

“That… that’s great, Anne! Wow, I’m so happy for you!”

 

“Eddie, I--”

 

“I’ve met someone too,” he lies. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

 

“Oh!” She pauses to gather her thoughts. “Well, congratulations again! A lot of good things are happening for you, I see.”

 

“Yeah! They’re great.”

 

He hears the smile in her voice. “They?”

 

“Yeah, they.” He casts a glance at the creature, watching them silently from the counter. “‘Cause, y’know, not everyone fits into nice labels sometimes.”

 

Her soft laughter fills Eddie with a sad longing. “That’s so, uh, progressive of you, Eddie. What are _they_ like?”

 

“Uhh, well…” He glances at the creature again. “They’re kind of strange. Cute, but in an… unconventional way? Kind of clingy too, but it’s endearing for some reason.”

 

The creature sticks their tongue at him again.

 

“They’re also kind of an asshole.”

 

Anne’s laughter is musical from the other end. “So it’s a match made in heaven, then?”

 

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, I guess you’d know best.”

 

"Oh yeah, what was that thing you sent me about the slime?"

 

He chokes. "Don't, um. Don't worry about it."

 

"Well. Okay then."

 

The hollow silence fills his ear again. Agonizing, tormenting, making it impossible to ignore the burgeoning tightness in his chest.

 

“I, uh, have to go now. It was good hearing from you, Anne.”

 

“You too.” She pauses. “Please take care of yourself, Eddie.”

 

“Yeah, thanks. Bye.”

 

 

 

And then, there is nothing.

 

Just the sound of rain against his windows, and the abnormal, empty silence of his apartment.

 

Nothing more.

 

 

 

Eddie drops his phone onto the floor and feels the tightness in his chest become unbearable, choking him from inside until his cheeks turn red. He slumps against the wall and slides down to the floor. He gets it. He finally _gets it._ It’s not that he didn’t get it before, but he didn’t truly _get it_ in the complete soul-encompassing way that really made him really accept it for what it was: a complete and utter severance of his past.

 

Silence speaks louder than words, and if his hopes were like the dwindling embers of a discarded cigarette, this silence was the boot that finally, _finally_ smothers it under it’s heels.

 

He should have accepted it ages ago. Why didn’t he accept it then?

 

Eddie feels the sadness drop over him like a thick and heavy fog, pinning him to the floor where he feels inclined to stay forever.

 

_Fuck. Fuck._

 

His eyes begin to sting.

 

In the midst of his self-loathing, he feels something wet grasping the tip of his pinky. Eddie looks up to see that the creature has shaped the end of one of their limbs into the shape of a small hand to clutch at his finger. It’s a replica of _his_ hand, to be exact, with the same palm lines transcribed perfectly onto the creature’s downsized impersonation, even if the backside looks a bit jagged and half-finished. It makes sense, because when he holds the jar, that's the side of Eddie that the creature is most familiar with.

 

He looks further and sees the lid of the jar on the floor, having been twisted off completely. The creature’s body is stretched thin to extend their limb all the way from the counter to his hand.

 

“... Oh,” he mouths despondently. “So that’s what you’ve been doing this whole time.”

 

As if taking his inaction as a sign, the creature drags their body from counter completely and oozes themself down to the floor, situating themself next to Eddie. They inch their replicated hand closer, until their simulated hand nestles squarely in the center of Eddie’s palm.

 

He’s in far too much shock to respond.

 

Eddie knows they aren’t doing this out of empathy. The creature hasn’t demonstrated any capacity for it thus far, and he’s aware that they’re more than likely unable to understand the _oh, so_ human concept of empathy either. Rather, his intuition tells him that it’s the creature’s mimicry at play again.

 

And yet… a small part of him believes otherwise.

 

In what feels like one of the worst chapters of his life, a tiny _delusional_ part of him believes that this small act of compassion is truly intentional. That someone, _who isn’t even human,_ is here to offer him their compassion when he really needs it most. That someone, even if it’s not who he ever expected it to be, is willing to be there and hold his hand.

 

A ghost of a smile graces his lips and he closes his eyes.

 

“Thank you…”

 

The weight in his chest lightens just a bit as he curls his fingers around theirs.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its ya boi again!! brush yo teefs!
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: Wowee even more bonus content. Here's how [Diane and Mister Meatloaf](https://schadenfiend.tumblr.com/post/179866659632/im-a-loser-so-i-drew-even-more-art-for-chap-3-of) look like.


	4. The Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't see it at the end of the last chapter, here's how [Diane and Mister Meatloaf](https://schadenfiend.tumblr.com/post/179866659632/im-a-loser-so-i-drew-even-more-art-for-chap-3-of) look like.
> 
> Aaaand enjoy!

 

 

 

It’s not perfect, but it’s better.

 

Eddie’s surprised by how good it feels to get out of bed with an actual schedule. He’s not a morning person, sure. But being given a task, a goal to meet, a job to fulfill - it’s not for the purpose he wants in life, but a purpose is better than drifting through time and space as an inconsequential artifact.

 

Being able to flex his investigative muscles is also a bonus. Writing gossip is, in a way, like the trashy whipped-cream-filled cousin of investigative journalism. Except instead of writing about crooks and exposing their malediction to the public, he’s writing about rich idiots and exposing their infidelity to bloodthirsty suburban moms. Eddie’s only stipulation is that he refuses to write under his own name. It’s to preserve any semblance of journalistic integrity when he inevitably drops this gig one day, and Diane couldn’t care less.

 

So now Eddie writes under the pseudonym of Will Seabrook, the douchebag Extraordinaire™, to which he’s allowed (if not encouraged) to spit as much vitriol as possible into his work. He’s getting _paid_ to release all his pent-up aggression, and Diane simply claps her hands on the side like she’s never been happier.

 

So, really, he can’t complain.

 

Of course, the real perk that comes with regular work is the regular pay. That foreign yet familiar weight of the dollar being dropped into his pocket again. It’s not a whole lot of cash, because writers aren’t being revered as gods anymore these days, but Eddie can finally treat himself to small luxuries again. Decent meals mean he has enough fuel in the tank to start building up his neglected muscles again, and he takes it upon himself to restart his weight training regime. And surprisingly, delayed onset muscle soreness is a pain he finds that he’s missed; a constant reminder of the growth that is to come.

 

After the first week of getting out of bed regularly, eating properly, and dusting the cobwebs from his barbell, Eddie decides to treat himself and his new friend to something special. It's no Wagyu, sure, but it’s a cut of beef that he knows he can work with.

 

Just as he’s promised.

 

The creature watches Eddie puttering around the kitchen in preparation of this meal. Eddie looks back and feels a twinge of guilt for transferring murder pudding into a new mason jar with a lock-clamp. But after discovering that they were able to easily twist off the lid of their old accommodations, Eddie’s just not risking it. He still hasn't figured out whether the creature’s inclination to be so close is done out of affection or whether they want to consume him, but he figures that today would be a good day to address some of these questions.

 

(Still, when he first transferred the creature to the clamp jar, they were very apparent in their displeasure. Seethingly so. The moment they realized they weren’t able to twist off the lid like before, they started panicking, boiling vehemently with an unfounded passion, throwing themselves against the inside of the spill-proof container until they succeeded in knocking themself off the counter - luckily, Eddie caught the creature before they shattered, but it was still a _very_ close call.

 

From there, Eddie has sort of managed to placate them with more of the chicken breast, but they still chose to ignore him for the past few days, refusing to manifest their eyes and mouth and remaining as a black pitch in his vicinity, or deliberately turning away whenever he tried to speak to them.

 

But hopefully, they’ll be in a forgiving mood today.)

 

Eddie’s steak is almost done resting, while the creature’s slab is plated raw under the assumption that they prefer it this way.

 

“Hey, pocket pudding. You excited for dinner?”

 

The creature hisses inside the jar, spraying their alien spittle against the glass before turning away.

 

“Aw, c’mon! Don’t be like that!”

 

The creature stubbornly shunts his remark.

 

“Damn. And to think that I even went through the effort of salting this puppy for an hour. A poor man’s filet mignon, just for you, boo.”

 

The creature doesn’t seem properly appeased, but their surprise is apparently when Eddie undoes the clasp on the jar, flipping open the top to expose the creature to the air. Even though the creature has shown a propensity for raw food, they, too, start salivating that telltale verdant spittle when they take in the aroma of his cooked dish.

 

“Oh? What’s this? You want some?”

 

Eddie cuts a cube of meat from the raw slab, then dangles it over the exposed jar with his fork. Gingerly, the creature sequesters their mass into a tendril that snakes out. The moment the tendril gets close to the meat, Eddie pulls his fork away, strategically keeping the treat just out of reach.

 

“Nuh uh, murder puds. You’re gonna have to come out and show your face if you want some.”

 

Finally, the creature’s eyes manifest into Eddie’s view. Their eyes are narrowed, with the jagged outer edges scintillating with agitation. Still, they stretch their aqueous body over and outside the lip of the jar, recollecting their mass onto the table as a obsidian sphere with bright, opalescent eyes.

 

They watch him expectantly, and Eddie observes the creature too, taking note of their recent changes. They’ve definitely grown compared to before, and the current jar no longer fits easily into his pocket. He’s bewildered when a strange mix of fear and reverence creeps up on him, filling his chest with an emotion he’s not able to easily pin.

 

They look better. _So much better_ than that boiling pot of tar he first found next to his bike. Of course Eddie’s not an expert on xenobiology, but they look _healthy_ in a way, with their blackness darker than before, and the eyes brighter and more animated than ever.

 

And it’s what compels him to reach out, to touch the creature.

 

They hiss at him with their teeth bared, and their familiar alarm-pattern blossoms over their amorphous skin like an embossed kaleidoscope.

 

“No,” he states firmly, riding on the unexpected surge of bravery.

 

They hiss again, causing some of the green saliva to fleck onto his hand.

 

“No,” he repeats, with more dominance in his voice. “Stop being a rudey patootie.”

 

They continue to hiss, but it peters out to a quiet rumble when the tips of his fingers meet their surface. He grazes his fingers along what he assumes to be the top of their head, rubbing in gentle circles, and the alarm-pattern retreats back into their body, retiring their surface to that familiar organic smoothness.

 

After some time, the creature appears to defrost under his touch, transforming from a rigid sphere to something softer and more receptive to the tenderness. They deflate a little, akin to a balloon, but they make no effort to reject his advances.

 

“Yes,” he mumbles soothingly, watching the creature close their eyes as their cardinal tongue dangles leisurely -  a vivid contrast to their dangerously sharp teeth.

 

“Yes,” he says again, before gently withdrawing his hand. With his other hand still enclosed around the fork, he brings the raw cube of meat toward the creature’s maw. They quickly chomp down on the meat with enough force to almost wring the fork out of his hand. But Eddie has learned to expect this, so he tightens his grip just before it happens.

 

_A trill of excitement flutters along his skin._

 

Because the purpose of the steak is two-fold, with the first being that he feels compelled to keep that promise to the creature if he was presented with a job offer - to which he has already accepted.

 

But the second and true intention is to establish some form of communication between the creature and himself.

 

He’s already aware of the creature’s acute sense of touch, smell, taste, and hearing. And though he’s unsure if they possess any talent for spoken language, they’ve shown themself to be very capable in other modules of communication: mimicry, body surface patterns, hissing, those expressive eyes, and their extensive array of body configurations.

 

He acknowledges that getting to the point where he could have a regular verbal conversation, like asking them where they're from, is unfeasible, but simple phrases may be a reasonable goal. He posits that at the very least, the creature is capable of understanding verbal _tone_ and can distinguish basic phonemes _._ He’s starting simple by choosing a binary form of language: “yes” and “no”, with a harsh or soft intonation.

 

Because…

 

If he can establish at least those two words, then there’s hope for so, _so much more._

 

So he repeats this, cutting up another cube of sirloin. He presents the meat to the creature, who eagerly stretches out their tendrils in wanting.

 

“No,” he says firmly.

 

But the creature doesn’t relent, forcing Eddie to pull back right before they reach it. “No, no, no!”

 

The creature’s eyes dart back and forth between Eddie and the fork, with frustration manifesting as jagged waves that cut along their body. Eddie feels a bit guilty for withholding their meal, but he’s determined to try and make this work. He takes a deep breath to renew his resolve before holding out the fork again.

 

As the creature reaches out while eyeing him suspiciously, he repeats his firm “no.” They hesitate, but eventually deign to stop their tendrils in mid-stride.

 

They both pause, holding their position for a few precarious moments, before Eddie finally says “yes”.

 

They don’t understand -- not at first anyway. Not until Eddie waves the fork at the creature, inching closer in their direction, and finally, their eyes widen and shine with comprehension. Maybe it’s not the type of understanding in which they can acknowledge that “yes” means yes and “no” means no in the most basic sense, but it's the realization that this human - _their_ human - is trying to establish a mode of contact. That's what gets them.

 

It causes them to change their previously irritable demeanor to one that is far more agreeable.

 

Eddie repeats this experiment a few more times, with the creature holding their tendrils with each “no” and accepting the food with each “yes”. He varies this, trying the same experiment with different types of food, and still, the creature yields at no, while it accepts chocolate and chips at yes.

 

_Could it really be this easy?_

 

Eddie pauses for a moment, thinking of different ways to illustrate the binary concept. Then, he quickly rushes to the fridge and grabs a stick of celery. Eddie splits it into a bite-sized morsel and places it before the creature. They shift their gaze between Eddie and the vegetable, baring their teeth in disgust without reaching for it. Eddie smiles as he pushes the stick closer, to which the creature responds by swiping a tendril at it. The piece of celery smacks Eddie in the face.

 

Eddie chuckles as he picks up the rejected morsel, and he points to it with his free hand: “no.”

 

The creature’s eyes brighten with recognition at the word, but falter at the context.

 

Attempting to demonstrate the alternative, Eddie places another cube of steak in front of the creature. When it becomes clear that the creature allowed accept or reject it without his permission, they curl a tendril around the morsel and bring it to their jaw.

 

“Yes?” he asks emphatically. Their eyes brighten with curiosity.

 

Eddie repeats this new concept a few more times, voicing their affirmations or rebuff until it becomes clear that the creature really _gets it_ by the way their eyes sparkle each time he speaks. He does this to signify that “yes” and “no” can be used to qualify things that _they_ choose to accept and reject, rather than just when he gives the creature permission.

 

Eddie ponders again. He’s impressed by how easily the creature has been picking it up -- it’s almost as if their linguistic capabilities are inherent. Still, his final experiment is to see how the creature chooses to communicate the binary concept back toward him, with Eddie being the recipient of their intention instead.

 

He picks up another cube of meat and points to it with his free hand: “Yes? No?”

 

The creature's eyespots dilate with confusion.

 

He waits.

 

“Yes? No?”

 

When it finally dawns on the creature that their human is expecting a signal that represents their choice, their body modulates with frustration. A budding prodigy of mimicry they may be, but even the creature has limits, especially when they aren’t privy to the knowledge on imitating hominid vocal chords just yet.

 

Still, they try. They project their tendrils toward the meat, and then, as if changing their mind mid-stride, they retract their protrusions back into their body. Eddie watches with amusement as the corners of the creature’s mouth quiver, trying, with much difficulty, to mould their mouth into a shape that creates an answer like Eddie’s.

 

But in the end, they can’t do it.

 

Instead, they cling onto the last phoneme that they believe to be sufficient in representing the word.

 

“Sssss…”

 

Eddie blinks.

 

It takes him a hot second to realize it wasn’t a hiss, having none of that malice he’s previously experienced.

 

“Uh. Was that a… yes?”

 

“Sssss,” the creature repeats.

 

“Yes?”

 

“SSSS!”

 

It was a _yes._

 

“YES!” Eddie Brock punches his fist toward the ceiling as his chest swells with pride. “You said yes! Oh my god, holy shit, you fucking… I can’t believe you...!”

 

The creature shies away by a few inches, misinterpreting his sudden change in behaviour as aggression.

 

“Oh! Sorry lil’ buddy, here you go!”

 

And finally, Eddie gives the creature the meat, to which they devour immediately.

 

He’s so elated that the corners of his eyes begin to prickle. He sweeps his palms against the creature’s body affectionately, with so much pride welling in his chest that he has to bite down on his lip in lieu of muttering happy gibberish.

 

As before, the creature allocates their mass into the formation of a tendril, purposely articulating the tip into the shape of Eddie's palm.

 

“Yes!”

 

Eddie holds out his own hand to accept the creature's. He sweeps his thumb against the back of their hand affectionately, and the creature takes it as a sign to approach Eddie more closely. They ooze forth happily, resting more of the weight from their body into his palm.

 

“Yes?”

 

Eddie watches as the creature begins to shift their entire weight onto his hand. Suddenly, he’s not as sure as he was before about their intentions, but he’s still riding on that previous elation.

 

He hesitates.

 

“... Yes?” he finally responds.

 

They take his verbal confirmation as permission to continue wrapping their body around his limb.

 

Suddenly, the creature's eyes submerge back into their body.

 

And then…

 

The moment their entire body dissolves into a sea of writhing, prehensile tentacles that start marbling around his wrist is the moment when Eddie finally, _finally_ loses his chill. His fear catches him by surprise.

 

“No!”

 

...

 

They cease their movement but remain wrapped around his arm.

 

Meanwhile, he feels the skin under every point of contact _burst_ with life, as if the connection is far too intimate for him to handle so suddenly.

 

“N-no,” he croaks, with his fear warping his voice to one that lacks conviction. But the creature recognizes the simple word and its meaning.

 

_No._

 

And _no_ means _no,_ doesn't it?

 

… It's almost imperceptible, but he sees their spirit being crushed as their body deflates _just a bit._

 

They falter for a moment, internally fighting with their urge to continue as if they were betraying a deep-seated, primordial instinct. But in the end, their respect for his wishes wins over their urge to continue their all-encompassing embrace, and they eventually pull away, relinquishing their grasp on Eddie.

 

And instantly as they let go, Eddie feels as if his arm is suddenly too naked, too exposed -- similar to the feeling one gets after they take off a ring that hasn’t been taken off in _years._ It's a strange emptiness.

 

A mysterious longing for something that never existed.

 

Their eyes re-emerge on their black surface to look at him.

 

_\-- And Eddie thinks he’s just projecting, he must be, because how could he not be --_

 

But there’s something irrevocably _heartbreaking_ about their expression.

 

“... Wait, what?”

 

They withdraw, phasing their eyespots back into the shadows of their flesh, and ooze away from his person.

 

“Hey, wait!”

 

The taciturn creature ignores him and continues to retreat toward their glass home.

 

 _“Oh fuck me,”_ he mutters. An inexplicable guilt stabs him in the chest. “How did I just make things worse?”

 

He’s interrupted when he feels his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Given that brief opening, the creature rushes forth and steals the rest of the steak from under Eddie’s hands.

 

“Whu-- hey! God dammit!”

 

He simply watches as the creature retreats back into the jar, taking care to deliberately close the lid behind it. Almost petulantly.

 

And yet, somehow, he feels like he has no jurisdiction to chase after it even though he doesn’t really understand what’s happening. He's relinquished that right, especially after seeing that too-familiar expression of someone who has just had their hopes brought up before having it inevitably smashed to the ground.

 

He doesn't get it.

 

Doesn't understand what's happening, and ultimately it feels like his quest for communication is a _failure._

 

But he doesn't have too much time to dwell on it. His phone vibrates for the third time before he realises it's still going. Eddie quickly wipes the raw steak-juice from his hands onto his jeans before he fishes out his phone. He sighs as soon as he recognizes the name of the caller.

 

“... Hey,” he mutters.

 

“Eddiiiee! Guess who’s calling?!”

 

He pulls his phone away, just in time to save his ear drums.

 

“Uh. I have caller ID, Diane. Just so you’re aware.”

 

“Thaaat’s right, Eddie! It’s your beloved mother Diane calling! How’s my favourite asshole of a son doing?”

 

Eddie flinches and feels a warmth rise on his cheeks.  “Oh, nasty. Can you… can you _not_ call yourself that.”

 

“ _Excuse me!_ Edward Charles Allan Brock. Is that any way to speak to your momma like that?”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“Especially after I just brought a street rat like you into my warm and loving home?”

 

“I’m calling CPS.”

 

“How dare you.”

 

“ _Beep, boop, beep_ , oh look! It's ringing.”

 

“No!”

 

“Hello, CPS? Please, sirs, there’s a crazy lady trying to regurgitate her partially digested kale salad into my mouth.”

 

“You ungrateful child, you!”

 

“Help, sirs. Now she's sitting her fat ass on me like an incubator.”

 

“You absolute shit head! I’m gonna bring you back to the orphanage and ask for a refund.”

 

Eddie howls with laughter.

 

“Enough pleasantries! I have a job for you!” Diane barks.

 

He shuts up immediately.

 

“I'm scheduling an interview for you, son dearest. You better keep your calendar clear for the next few days, because this is important!”

 

Eddie sighs. “Oh, yeah? Who, pray-tell, am I interviewing.”

 

The smugness in her voice is all too audible. “You’re interviewing Chris Rouge! You're welcome, bitch.”

 

Eddie places his head in his hands. “Chris Rouge.”

 

“Yes.”

 

_"Chris Rouge.”_

 

“You got it!”

 

_“Chris-McFucking-Rouge.”_

 

“Are you fucking done? Yes, it’s Chris Rouge! Where's my 'thank you, mother dearest, for this wonderful bounty’?”

 

Eddie rubs his temples in disbelief. “I can't believe my first celebrity interview is with a child actor.”

 

She scoffs indignantly. “What? No. Chris turned 22 this year. He’s not a child anymore!”

 

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, but he started his career on the Disney Channel!”

 

“So.. so what! Who gave you the right to shit on someone just because they got an early start in life?”

 

“Uh, you did? You literally pay me to paint them like a portrait of Satan's nutsack.”

 

“Yeah, exactly! So do your job, you ungrateful son of a bitch!”

 

Eddie cackles. “You know, if you're my mother, that makes _you_ the bitch.”

 

“Oh shut the fuck up, Eddie! I don't pay you for this sass!”

 

“Actually, Diane, you do.”

 

There’s an indecipherable mix of groaning and screaming on the other end before she abruptly ends the call.

 

And as the last vestiges of laughter die down in Eddie’s throat, he returns to the cold quiet of his apartment, and the ever burgeoning distance between the creature and himself. He turns and catches the creature staring at him, before their eyes abruptly phase back into the void.

 

Eddie feels his lower lip quiver as guilt drags at his conscience.

 

He stretches his arm toward the creature and hesitates, taking a moment to twist his wrist where the creature’s body was previously connected. He tries to recapture that strange intimacy in his mind, recalling that otherworldly amalgamation of the creature’s essence onto his own. But he sighs when he realizes that his recollection is nothing but a marred daguerrotype to the real experience.

 

Just a reminder of his emptiness.

 

He doesn’t _understand._

 

“What just happened..?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> Breakfast pudding!!!


	5. The Interview Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Been reworking and planning things for this fic, and I think I'm just gonna put it out before I overthink it. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, shout out to the mass orgy that is the symbrock discord server for keeping me on my toes.
> 
> y'all need jesus lmao

 

 

 

In retrospect, it wasn’t fair for Eddie to preemptively misjudge Chris Rouge.

 

A former child star with a future paved so brightly isn’t exactly a valid rationale for Eddie to debase someone’s name for sales, clicks and likes. And it takes him a while to realize this, because the more he thinks on it, the more he’s come to terms with it being jealousy as the reason why he was initially so opposed to this interview. His own childhood was so mediocre in every possible way, with so little support and recognition from his father at every milestone, that it’s impossible for him to not feel a bit like Chris' antithesis in comparison.

 

And the more he researches the man, the more admonishment he feels in regards to his initial reaction. There's not a lot about Chris from behind the scenes. Most of what's publicised is from teen-oriented tabloids about his boyish face, muscular physique and sexy lips. There are some articles about who he's been seen dating, and the occasional mention of donations or the obligatory charity work. Nothing too interesting, but nothing strikingly objectionable either. He's just a cherry-picked young star with a backstory so inoffensive that being paid to spin him as a monster feels bad, even under a pseudonym.

 

That is until he discovers Chris Rouge’s association to NewLife Plus. In which his initial displeasure reignites to take over on a whole new level. Suddenly, his ability to remain so innocuous in the public eye seems almost… deliberate.

 

He’s sponsored by a company that specializes in the sales of “juices, dietary supplements and everyday household items for transhumanism” -- whatever that means. _Seriously, what is that supposed to mean? Is drinking fancy water and eating vitamins with gold flakes supposed to give someone wings, or open their third eye or…_

 

Eddie rereads their summary statement.

 

_Household items._

 

The website for NewLife Plus doesn’t specify what these so-called “household items” refer to. Eddie laughs at the idea of gold-plated butt plugs granting the wearer spiritual enlightenment. The idea is so ludicrous that Eddie actually chokes on his coffee and coughs onto his screen.

 

“Oh fuck,” he wheezes.

 

Still, the more he sinks his investigative teeth into it, the worse it gets. Eddie’s almost relieved when he finds out that Chris Rouge, this golden-era poster boy, has not-so-golden associations with what is essentially a goddamn pyramid scheme. And that relief eventually makes way to a giddy excitement when he starts uncovering posts made by people afflicted by the products. The more he digs, the more their thinly veiled perfection cracks. There are whispers of allegations, stories of families being torn asunder, and lawsuits regarding these “transformations” after using the products, and…

 

Something, something, _something…_

 

__

 

_“Transformation.”_

 

But every time he finds himself getting close to discovering what sort of “transformation” they’re referring to, it stops at a dead end. Every post has either been removed, or the blog has been shut down, or he doesn’t have permission to access the content. It’s _so_ frustrating, to be right on the cusp of discovering something heinous and then being denied, but it sets his investigative neurons firing left, right, and center in a way that is all too easy for him to pick up from where he last left.

 

“There’s something seriously wrong with this, even more so than the regular run-of-the-mill pyramid scheme,” he muses. “Which, y’know, sets the bar really low to begin with. What do you think, murder pudding?”

 

But when Eddie turns to face his obsidian companion, there’s just something a bit off about their demeanour. Normally, their eyes would have already been manifested because of their proclivity to watch Eddie constantly, as such is their habit to analyze and incorporate his mannerisms into their mimicry. In truth, it took some time for Eddie to get over the sensation of constantly being followed by a pair of eyes, but to discover that their awareness is, for once, no longer directed at him makes him feel…

 

_Weird?_

 

It feels bizarre for Eddie to admit that he _likes_ it. To relish in being the sole occupant of the alien inkstain’s attention is hard to admit, but, weird or not, it’s the undeniable truth.

 

“Are you still mad at me?”

 

Finally, the creature’s eyes blossom from the shadows of their flesh to swirl, for a moment, like cream on black coffee. It takes an extra second before their eyes focus back into their classic lunette shapes, but there’s an expression that Eddie hasn’t seen before. Their crescent eyes are somber cracks onto their body, with the price of fatigue weighing heavily on their being.

 

“Murder pudding, sweetheart… are you alright?”

 

Eddie speaks to them in hushed tones, aware that his words are being received as meaningless noise to the creature, but he hopes the tone is enough to convey his concern for their well being.

 

The creature’s eyes are hazy as they watch Eddie undo the clasp on the jar before he gently sinks his fingers into their flesh, and they curl a weak tendril around his thumb as he does so. And surprisingly, there’s just a bit less resistant -- just a bit less _bounce_ in their body as they push back against his digits, and it fills Eddie with an unspoken dread.

 

Their reaction doesn’t make sense and it’s disquieting.

 

Even though the creature has demonstrated no limit to their consumption of food, Eddie recalls feeding the creature earlier today, so it’s not as if malnutrition could be the cause of their exhaustion. _Sleep deprivation? Does the creature even sleep?_ Or maybe it’s depression, which is not that uncommon with animals experiencing sudden bouts of loneliness… and if so, Eddie feels pangs of his conscience squeeze at his chest.

 

He _hopes_ he’s not the cause of their distress, but he fears there may be an inkling of truth to it…

 

The outer boundaries of their eyespots ebb and flow like waves, and they eventually flutter shut when he withdraws his hand from their body.

 

“Get some sleep,” he whispers, before turning off the lights.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even as the sun makes its debut from behind the clouds, Eddie’s companion is still not doing any better than the night prior. They lay in the jar, just as fatigued from the evening, still responsive to Eddie’s call when he greets them the next day, but it’s done so lacking their usual energy. It’s a cause for concern, sure, but Eddie is in a rush to get ready for this cursed interview and doesn’t have the benefit of time to coax the creature back to life.

 

“I promise I’ll take care of you after this.”

 

_Now would be a great time for you to have a manual._

 

He slips on a dress shirt and packs a camera into his bag. For a second, he considers leaving the creature at home, but… the thought of being both sick and alone simultaneously is enough to make him reconsider. He gently places the jar into his backpack with an extra t-shirt as padding, as the creature is now too large to be stored securely on the handlebar of his motorbike. Eddie releases a ragged breath, hoping that the ride to his interviewee’s residence won’t be too rough for the creature to handle in their current state.

 

Eddie shakes his head, suppressing his apprehension as he starts up his bike.

 

When he arrives at the residence of Chris Rouge, the indecisive swell of jealousy and awe thrums through Eddie’s heart again. Just at the edge of the city and far from the bustling downtown core is the young star’s home, in a thought-provoking fusion of contemporary and futuristic. He truly doubts it was Chris’ original intention, but the liberal use of glass makes it almost _too_ easy for Eddie to see what’s inside, as if the architect who designed the house is trying to scream “look at me, I have nothing to hide!”

 

Either way, the house is impressive regardless of its political meaning. The sweeping glass panels, polished to reflect even the most microscopic details makes Eddie think back to his dump of an apartment which pales so, _so_ much in comparison. He forces himself to release his clenched jaws, and he exhales.

 

Still, there’s a grain of satisfaction in knowing that if bird shit were to land on his windows it would stick out like a sore thumb, which brings a bittersweet smile to the corners of Eddie’s lips.

 

He takes a moment to recall the objectives of the day before continuing: he’s going to go inside, ask Chris a few questions about his role in a new movie, then go home and take care of his sick alien blobfish. That’s it. It should be quick and simple, with no complications.

 

With his bike parked and his backpack secured over one shoulder, he makes his way to the main entrance. Eddie scans the entrance with confusion, unable to locate the doorbell. He feels silly and eventually extends his hand to knock on the door. Just before his knuckles meet the white-stained wood, a speaker from above crackles to life.

 

“Hello there! What’s your name and purpose?”

 

Eddie quickly retracts his hand.

 

“H-hey! This is _Ee_ \-- Will. William Seabrook. Columnist for Star Chronicles. I’m here to interview Chris Rouge.”

 

“Oh! Alright then, come on in!”

 

A loud buzz signals an electronic mechanism that unlocks the front door. Immediately, the piercing bark of an angry dog greets him as he steps inside.

 

“Oh, _shit_ \--”

 

Eddie keeps his hands braced before his person as a midnight black doberman approaches him with their teeth bared.

 

“Hey! Hush, Willy! Get away from that poor gentleman.”

 

The doberman doesn’t stop their predatory advances, and Eddie backs away from the entrance of the house. The sound of running feet fills the hallways, and finally, Chris reaches the entrance and grabs his dog by the collar.

 

“C’mon, Willy! Don’t be so rude, you’re making me look like an ass.” He turns his gaze to Eddie and laughs. “Sorry about that. He’s a great guard dog, but he assumes everyone is dirty rotten at first.”

 

Eddie cocks his brow in disbelief. “Willy?”

 

Chris runs his free hand through his cherubic locks and chuckles. “Right! That’s kind of a strange coincidence, yeah? William Seabrook, meet Willy the dog.”

 

“Charmed,” he forces himself to reply. The doberman finally ceases his barking, but it’s replaced with a threatening growl that makes Eddie sweat.

 

“Uh huh. And I’m Chris of course! A pleasure to meet you, Will. I’d offer my hand but, erm, I’m kind of occupied with this idiot right now. Please make yourself at home while I go toss this pinhead into a room or something.”

 

“Okay, thanks man.”

 

As Chris drags his terrifying guard dog away, Eddie finally feels the tension drain from his shoulders. And as much as he wants to take his time to admire the interior decorating, he’s here on business, so he starts unloading his backpack to set up his camera next to an elegant sofa set in Chris’ living room.

 

By the time he’s finished, Chris still hasn’t returned. Eddie feels his pocket vibrating and pulls out his phone to see a letter of encouragement:

 

 

“So little faith…” he chuckles, then he turns off his phone to avoid disrupting the interview. Still, Chris is nowhere to be seen, and Eddie starts to grow impatient. Given this momentary grace, he takes a moment to check on the creature from within the main compartment of his bag.

 

“You alright?” he mutters quietly. The creature blinks blearily at his question. “Aw, murder pudding. You look so tired.”

 

Eddie dips a single finger into the jar to gently stroke the creature’s “head”, or what he presumes to qualify as that. The creature doesn’t resist; they just simply wind a thin tendril around his finger in appreciation.

 

“Coffee?”

 

Chris’ sudden appearance startles Eddie, and he quickly pushes his backpack to the side.

 

“Uh, no thanks. Appreciate the offer though.”

 

“Eh, shit. I already made two cups. How about some vitamin water?”

 

Chris waves a bottle filled with a clear liquid in his direction, with the gold flakes inside sparkling obscenely in the room’s natural lighting like a off-colored snowglobe. Eddie recalls all of the information he found the night prior and the mentions of “transformations” after consuming NewLife Plus products, which causes an involuntary shudder to shake through his spine.

 

“You know what? I’ll take the coffee since you already made it.”

 

“Right on.”

 

Eddie graciously accepts the cup of too-hot coffee and makes his way to the seat positioned across from the couch. Meanwhile, Chris lazily spreads his body onto the couch in a way that takes up both seats, with a lackadaisical posture that vexes Eddie some more.

 

“I didn’t realize there was going to be camera with this interview,” Chris remarks with a shameless wink toward the lens.

 

“It's just in case I miss any details. The interview will be published in print and online, but if there’s any good footage, it might be included in the online media. I'll have Diane send you the edited video to get your O.K. before publishing anything.”

 

“Diane is great. She’s… a compelling woman,” he laughs.

 

“Heh, I suppose compelling is one way to put it.”

 

Eddie smirks to himself, amused and curious as to how Diane managed to get Chris’ agent to even agree to an interview, and even more astonished with how she managed to pry Chris’ home address from their hands too. _She truly is a terrifying force to be reckoned with,_ he muses, and there’s relief in knowing that he’s at least on her good side. For now.

 

Eddie steps behind the camera to make a few final tweaks and checks the lighting. His experience with photography is limited, but Diane specifically requested for film to accompany the written work, and she was eager enough to throw the company camera at him.

 

“You ready?”

 

“Yeah! Let’s get on with it!”

 

And so, it starts rolling. Eddie forces himself to speak with a polite enthusiasm, but in truth, he feels bits of his soul leaving his body in the process.

 

“Thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to let me, and the readers of Star Chronicles pester you into an interview, Chris.”

 

Chris smiles into the camera in a way that highlights the boyish dimples in his cheeks. “No problem, mate! Thanks for having me, Will.”

 

“Chris, you just finished acting as the protagonist in the movie _Poison,_ which is about to hit the box office in a few weeks. How are you feeling?”

 

“So, so jazzed about it. This film was, in every way, a labour of love. I’ve done a lot of your typical teen rom-coms and dramas, but I think with this movie, I’ll finally be able to retire from those days and start doing some action flicks. So it’s been a wild ride.”

 

“So what is _Poison_ about?”

 

Chris gazes wistfully to the side and leans forward, kneading his palms together with a childish enthusiasm.

 

“So, _Poison._ Where to start? I loved the comics as a kid, so there’s so much that I could go on about on the series as a whole. But I guess if I had to summarize it as just the movie, then. Well. I play the role of Anders Law, a disgruntled PI that specializes in the paranormal. He does exactly what you think he’d be doing: scouting out the paranormal for his distressed, and often thankless clients. ‘Cept in an unlikely twist of events, he winds up becoming possessed by the ghost of a monster, and throughout the film, it’s a power struggle where Anders and Poison -- that’s the name of the monster, by the way -- fight for control over his body while they go off and solve mysteries.”

 

Eddie grins with a feigned interest. “Wow, that sounds…”

 

He bites his lip in rumination.

 

_Really fucking stupid._

 

“... Convoluted,” is what finally leaves his mouth.

 

“I know right? Or so you’d think, but it’s actually really simple. _Poison,_ and I mean the film, isn’t really meant to be taken seriously. It’s a fun film, just your classic buddy-cop scenario, except the buddies are literally joined at the hip, with the good cop being Anders, and the bad cop as Poison with very little reservations when it comes to chaos. So, shenanigans ensue. It’s all very comedic, to be honest, with Anders trying his best to appease the monster, and Poison discovering all these interesting aspects about humanity that he finds so captivating.”

 

“Poison is the name of a ghost-monster? What kind of monster is he?”

 

“These ghost-monsters _are_ their own type of monsters. I don’t want to give out too much in terms of spoilers but… hey man, I don’t mind telling you since this will be published after the movie is released. Anyway, these ghost-monsters already inhabit the earth in search for new victims to possess, though human possession is rare because it’s usually wildlife from temperate forests, you see. So there are very few encounters between humans and these beings to begin with, and not a lot is known. Normally they would stay for a bit, using their victims bodies for a while until they get bored, then suck out their souls before moving onto the next.”

 

Eddie bites down on his lip and smiles coquettishly, trying not to chuckle at the absurdity of the premise. “And… and poor Anders becomes the victim of this too. Chris, who is Anders Law, to you?”

 

“Oh boy, Anders Law… There’s so little to say both in book and on screen. See, he’s a pretty bland person. Mediocre at best kind of guy, but he tries to do the right thing. But on his own, he’s just a bit of a lonely loser with little prospect in his life. A history of broken relationships, no love from his family, that’s sort of thing. His background is quite sad, actually.”

 

“Not a very remarkable man on his own?”

 

“Ha, not at all! But that’s what makes him so relatable, yeah?”

 

Eddie winces internally, trying hard to ignore the implications. “‘Guess so. And how does that change when he gets possessed by Poison?”

 

“Y’know, once they establish that they’ve got a mutual objective and need to get along in order to get things done, the relationship between the two get pretty amicable. Like they’ve discovered the yin to their yang, lots of bickering and emotional fulfilment, which made the entire thing so much fun to film. The two really blossom as likeable people, both as separate individuals and together, once they meet and set their differences aside. Or rather, their differences are what makes their relationship so fun.”

 

Eddie feels himself smiling with the delivery of this next question. “Huh, you sure this isn’t a rom-com?”

 

Chris looks taken aback. “What?”

 

"A rom-com," he repeats.

 

"How do you mean?"

 

“‘Cause based on what you’ve said, it almost sounds as if Poison is the manic pixie dream girl that comes to shake Anders out of the reverie of his normal-day life.”

 

Eddie watches as Chris’ eyes stretch with trepidation, twisting his brows at the realization that he may have just filmed, yet again, another cursed rom-com. It’s the only time that Eddie has seen Chris insecure under the light of scrutiny.

 

“No, this isn’t a rom-com at all! It’s an action-horror-comedy, that’s for sure. Definitely not a rom-com at all!”

 

It’s difficult to keep the smugness out of his expression, but Eddie recalls Diane explicitly telling him not to piss-off Chris Rouge during this interview, so he backs off.

 

“Yeah you’re right, there’s nothing romantic about it at all.”

 

“Exactly!” Chris huffs.

 

Eddie decides to press on and switches the topic.

 

“What was it like working with Miles Henderson?”

 

“Yeah, Miles? He’s a good guy. Been a big fan of him for ages, so of course it was really hard for me to keep my cool ‘round him when I first found out I got the part. Never thought I’d see _Poison_ be put to life on the big screen, but he pulls it off in a way that’s truly terrifying, so true to life and canonically that sometimes I forget that, no, Miles is his own person, not the actual embodiment of Poison.”

 

“You two became close on set?”

 

“Oh yeah, so close. Literally handcuffed together, 24/7. I’ve seen him in a way that not that many people have, to be honest.”

 

And Eddie tries, so hard, not to laugh at how Chris keeps accidentally leading the conversation back to the film’s homoerotic subtext, because Chris is really not doing much to cull the fangirl fodder. Still, Eddie manages exert control over his face to maintain his professionalism in a way that is almost adjacent to adequate.

 

“So aside from being a budding star on the action scene, tell us more about yourself. What’s Chris Rouge like on his off days?”

 

The dimpled smile returns as the conversation fixates back on Chris himself. “Oh, you know, just regular things. Been training and doing tons of kickboxing lately to keep my shape for future roles, sometimes volunteering for animal shelters. Sometimes I sneak into local colleges and learn new languages. You know. Normal things.”

 

“Yeah, you’re the epitome of normal.”

 

Chris grins with a faux innocence.

 

And Eddie pauses, wondering if this is the golden opportunity to ask about his associations to the dodgy vitamin water. _Is this too risky?_ He’s unsure, but the journalist inside - the one he’d _rather_ be - pushes him toward it with an unremitting force that he eventually concedes to, throwing caution to the wind.

 

“And what about NewLife Plus? I hear you’re the spokesperson for their line of products.”

 

Chris’ grin falters slightly as if caught by surprise, but he readjusts his expression to maintain his reticent politeness. “Not a spokesperson, nah, but they do sponsor me to talk about their products. They’re a great company, by the way. Amazing vitamins and juices. Definitely helps with my figure, yeah?”

 

It’s so rehearsed that it makes Eddie cringe internally.

 

Yet, he sees the opening, and… he knows he should stop, because this is completely off of his original script, but there’s no force in his brain with enough commanding power to forcibly bound and gag his big, stupid mouth.

 

“What about the transfor--”

 

His voice is drowned out by the sound of familiar barking.

 

“--Oh,” he breathes. But he barely hears the sound of his own voice when he turns around to see the threatening figure of the doberman by the door, with their teeth barred and drooling with anticipation.

 

Chris turns to follow his gaze. “How’d you get out, Willy?”

 

“FU--” is all Eddie manages before the dog begins charging, with a primal, animalistic speed that gives neither Chris or Eddie the opportunity to generate any defensive measures.

 

And god, Eddie loves dogs as much as the next warm-blooded human male, but not so much when he’s sweating and running off that indisposed preservation instinct that has kicked in far too late to save him. He braces his arms in front of him and squeezes his eyes shut, almost missing the quiet _yelp_ heard just before impact.

 

“--GAAAHH!”

 

“Willy!”

 

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

 

“Willy, get off of him!”

 

“Fuck, fu… what?”

 

It finally dawns on him that he’s not being attacked. In fact, when Eddie finally opens his eyes and relaxes his arms, he realizes that this doberman - this terrifying, face-eating black dog - is, in fact, trying to nestle himself on Eddie like an oversized lapdog.

 

“What the--?”

 

Eddie eventually relents to wrap his arms under Willy’s legs to secure the weight of the squirming beast onto his lap. The doberman is fixated with their unabated affection for Eddie, whipping his undocked tail against Eddie’s legs while giving him sloppy kisses on his lips and cheeks.

 

“He-hey there, big guy! Woah!” Eddie can barely speak as he’s constantly being interrupted with more puppy kisses.

 

Chris finally stands up from his seat. “Willy, what are you doing? What’s going on?”

 

The doberman ignores Chris completely with their focus solely fixated on Eddie. And yet, the moment Chris approaches and grabs his collar, Willy restarts his growl with his hackles raised. Chris releases his grasp immediately, and the canine returns to licking Eddie’s face with an amaranthine obsession.

 

“What on earth…”

 

Eddie’s eyes dart to Chris helplessly. “Uh, is this a common thing?”

 

“No…? This has literally never happened before. Like I said, Willy _hates_ strangers. I have no idea why you happen to be an exception.”

 

“Oh…”

 

As if finally satisfied with donning Eddie his affections, Willy nuzzles his wet nose into the crook of Eddie’s neck and presses his body against his chest. With an exaggerated sigh, the doberman slumps against Eddie with a wholesome contentment.

 

“Uh.”

 

“Er.”

 

“I don’t know if I can continue the interview like this,” Eddie admits.

 

“Me neither,” laughs Chris.

 

“Do I smell like dog-heroin or something?”

 

“... Not that I’m aware of?”

 

Now that he’s no longer within the grasp of imminent danger, Eddie finally grants himself indulgence the of petting the seemingly benign dog. He carefully releases one hand from their duty of holding up Willy to place it on the dog’s head, finding pleasure in the simple gesture and running his fingers through their silky, short fur.

 

“Hey buddy,” Eddie coos quietly. “You are the most hot-and-cold dog I’ve ever met.”

 

“He’s usually not,” Chris interjects.

 

“Oh. Uh.” Eddie laughs mirthlessly. “Lucky me?”

 

“This is just… bizarre. To be honest, I’m kind of jealous that my dog likes you more than he likes me? Even though I’m the one who brought him home from the shelter… But Willy and Will Seabrook. It’s got a good ring to it.”

 

Eddie wheezes. “Are you kidding me? Are you… serious? I’m gonna need to apologize in advance because I’m pretty sure that if I get up right now, there’s going to be skidmarks on this chair. I literally thought I was going to die just now.”

 

Chris throws his head back as laughter shakes his throat. “Well alright, mate! Then let’s try to get Willy off of you, then.”

 

Chris leans in again and Willy responds with more growling. He backs away with apprehension.

 

Eddie pats the doberman’s head a few times. “C’mon, boy. Off you go.”

 

As if truly dissatisfied by his words, the canine leans back until Eddie’s face is within their field of vision. “Come on, big boy. While we’re still young.”

 

Eddie gestures his free hand to the floor and is rewarded with another sloppy kiss.

 

Chris rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Maybe we should just call it a day.”

 

A jolt of fear strikes into Eddie’s heart -- the panic of a lead slipping away, shaking him to his core.  “No, wait. I can keep interviewing you even if my hands aren’t free. That’s… that’s what the camera is for, right?”

 

Chris shrugs noncommittally, trying not to seem offended by his dog’s behaviour since he’s no longer the center of attention. “Nah, I’m not really in the mood for it anymore. I think you’ve got enough material for your write up anyway, yeah?”

 

Eddie hesitates.

 

Finally, Eddie feels his energy drain like a river into the floor.

 

“Right. I guess I can make it work. Thanks for your time, Chris.”

 

“No problem. But, uh, you may need to manually lift Willy off of you. On the rare occasion where he gets affectionate like this, he can be quite clingy.” Chris hesitates. “...Just usually not with people that aren’t myself.”

 

“Um, alright.”

 

It takes Eddie forcibly lifting Willy off his lap and placing him onto the floor before Willy finally lets go. Eddie takes a moment to chug the cold coffee before he shuts off the camera.

 

“You mind if I use the washroom for a second?”

 

“Not at all, mate. It’s just ‘round the corner.”

 

Eddie gets up to heed Chris’ directions. As he takes a few steps, the sound of pitter-pattering follows him. Eddie looks back to see the doberman trailing behind.

 

“Willy, _stay,_ ” commands Chris.

 

The doberman’s gaze darts back and forth between Eddie and Chris, as if fighting an internal battle in regards to who he should follow.

 

" _Stay,_ ” he commands more authoritatively.

 

Willy whines with an inner turmoil.

 

Without giving him a chance to respond, Eddie rushes into the bathroom and locks himself inside. A momentary mad scramble of paws on hardwood floors follows suite before it ends with more whining and a nose being shoved unceremoniously into the crack under the door.

 

He hears Chris’ voice in the distance. “Oh, come on! Leave the poor man alone.”

 

The doberman huffs with a juvenile resistance.

 

“Stop it, you dummy. Come here!”

 

There’s a moment of quiet rumination before the doberman finally retreats, pulling his nose from under the door. This is followed by the clicking of nail against wood as he trots away, finally heeding to the call of his master. The rush of relief that fills Eddie is almost dizzying, leaving him weak as he holds onto the sink for support. He quickly splashes cold water onto his face, finding reprieve in the wetness that cleanses the sweat from his skin.

 

…

 

_What the hell was that?_

 

This interview… did not go as he anticipated.

 

And as reality finally rears its ugly head, it dawns on Eddie that he was really close to fucking it up. Leave it to his ego, yet again, to pilot his brain into spewing out shit from his mouth that is better left unsaid. Sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, spouting accusations without enough hard evidence. It’s the same sort of foolhardy behaviour that has drawn the chasm between him and Anne, and it’s the same sort of behaviour that will earn him a swift kick to the nutsack one day.

 

He’s almost thankful that Chris’ psychotic dog was there on the scene to terminate the whole debacle. Diane _literally_ told Eddie not to aggravate Chris and to simply stick to questions regarding the film, and there he went instead, trying so desperately to open a can of pyramid-scheming worms.

 

At least he got enough material to finish his job.

 

He’s going to need to edit out the mention of NewLife Plus before he submits it to Diane, though.

 

He clutches at the edge of the sink, berating himself for his ape-shit behaviour until his face grows hot with his self-admonishment. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he sees a tired man. A man with countless regrets and countless mistakes, incapable of learning from his past.

 

When is he going to break out of this cycle? His stupidity is going to get him fired, and he still has an ailing, eldritch noodle to take care of.

 

_… Speaking of which._

 

It’s a small grace in which Chris Rouge is no longer occupying the living room by the time Eddie returns with water still dripping off his face. Chris’ voice is muffled and distant, to which Eddie presumes he’s away on the phone, somewhere in his massive glass-covered house.

 

The issue, however, is his backpack is strewn open, with the creature exposed in plain sight and Willy, the doberman, shoving his nose into the jar’s interior.

 

“Hey! Get away from that!”

 

Willy yelps at Eddie’s aggressive tone before he backs away with his tail between his legs. This time, Eddie has enough adrenaline coursing through his veins to abate his fear. Without thinking, Eddie lunges forth to use his body as a shield, wedging himself between his backpack and the canine.

 

Yet, as before, the dog has lost all intention to act toward Eddie with aggression. Instead, he stares at him, staring into Eddie’s eyes in a way that dogs don’t normally do, trying desperately to silently convey something beyond his scope as a canine.

 

Eddie stares back, trying to logically piece the reason behind this abnormal behaviour.

 

“Willy?” he mutters.

 

A pregnant pause fills the room as neither parties break eye contact. Eddie feels his heart pound within his chest, with the only sound to fill the room being their shared inspiration and expiration.

 

Finally, the doberman drops his gaze to the floor as if giving up his attempt at their correspondence. Instead, he leans forth to impart one last lick onto the tip of Eddie’s fingers before he turns away and leaves, like the goodbye of an estranged friend.

 

He whispers, almost saddened to see him go. “... Bye?”

 

_What was that…?_

 

Meanwhile, the creature wobbles playfully in the jar is if they were unaffected by the whole ordeal. Eddie squints at the creature pulsing festively as if they were never better, baffled by their re-ignition of their livelihood.

 

“Uh, I guess you’re feeling better now?”

 

The creature spins playfully in response, then declares their nondescript “ssss” without truly grasping the question.

 

Eddie’s head reels with confusion. The creature looked so fatigued this morning.

 

_... What the?_

 

He shakes his head in an attempt to liberate himself from these unanswered questions. There’s an austere certainty that he should be thankful for the minimal damage control necessary today, with murder pudding’s miraculous recovery, and with Eddie somehow earning the rare trust of a psychotic dog, allowing him to leave unscathed.

 

But still, it feels almost too convenient.

 

He shoves the creature, as well as all of his equipment, back into his bag when he hears the return of Chris’ footsteps.

 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he groans, slipping his backpack over his shoulder.

 

He’ll take his meager blessings where they count.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  MLEM


	6. The Interview Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to those who guessed right! And to those who didn't guess right, well... that's okay! Enjoy anyway! I apologize for the lack of responses, but I didn't want to say much to avoid giving things away!
> 
> Shout out to [Spidersurfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiderSurfer) who helped and gave me feedback on this chapter.
> 
> And if you're confused about the unreadable dialogue, you may need to re-read the previous chapter, or just read this chapter as is because it's not super important. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 

 

 

He's all they see when they finally come to, despite their exhaustion.

 

“Murder pudding, ˈswitˌhɑrt… ɑr ju ˌɔlˈraɪt?”

 

It's quiet, it's gentle, it's sweet, but they have no idea what it means. They recognize the first few vibrational patterns as it oscillates against their soma, but they miss the meaning to these phonetic symbols and the rest just sounds like gibberish.

 

It’s disheartening, because it was never supposed to end up like this. Not for them.

 

Amongst the billions of creatures that walk, fly, and swim on this humble sector of the solar system, the Klyntar are not endemic, and any endeavor to survive as individual organisms usually end with futility. Unbonded and being forced to face the unforgiving atmosphere alone is akin to handing them an expiration date; each hour, each minute, and each second are all just part of their exercise in futility.

 

And it's agonizing to become so close to this connection, this constant titillation and tease, and then be denied, time and time again. They should be more upset, but the fatigue already leeches at their soma, and rage would only cause their remaining strength to further drain through the cracks.

 

**_Host… rejects us… why?_ **

 

It's a delayed response, but there's the click of admonishment with the realization that they, while exhausted and slightly delirious, still continue to refer to this human by the incorrect title.

 

**_Preferred host. Potential host. Future host. Intended host. Destined host. But not host._ **

 

**_Not yet._ **

 

Their mind to swirls with torment, ebbing back and forth between anger, heartbreak, and forgiveness, failing to understand why anyone would reject the sacred relationship between a host and a willing Klyntar.

 

The preferred-host extends the ending branches of his biological processes into their sanctuary. He gently pushes against their body, slow and deliberate, in a way that brings back memories of the care imparted upon them from their biological parent during their own upbringing. Just the sharing of nutrients and organic compounds, of chemical memories and pithy lessons about survival. Short, fleeting and sweet, as is all that is required for Klyntar offspring before they leave their roost in search of their first host. It’s not much, but it's one of the few fond memories they're able to recall.

 

Everything else is a blur.

 

There are hollows in their mind, cavities that were previously occupied with tenants of pain. But to focus on these memories only causes them to distort further, like disturbances cast upon murky water, until they’re unsure of what they were trying to recall originally. Somehow, almost the entirety of their conscious memories begin with burning, the harrowing struggle under the intense scrutiny of Earth's brightest star, and then relief when the preferred-host finds them.

 

They, however, are unable to resist any attention that the preferred-host dons upon them, and simply winds a thin tendril appreciatively around his processes, pliant and warm. Even while experiencing the worst cock-block of their waking life, it’s still difficult for them to remain callous when every small action he imparts upon them is laced with such tenderness.

 

This connection is severed when another human vocalizes, causing the preferred-host to push them back into the cloth cavity.

 

“ˈkɑfi?”

 

“ʌ **,** noʊ θæŋks **.** əˈpriʃiˌeɪt ði ˈɔfər **,** ðoʊ **.** ”

 

They pout. They're not fond of the moments when they are forgotten.

 

But it's rare for their human to forget to close their sanctuary, and when they palpate their tendrils upward, they find a crack in their glass ceiling. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s delirium, or maybe it’s just l’appel du vide that convinces them to leave the confines of their safety and go, but given this brief opening, they decide to venture forth. They stretch their tendrils and move outward, phasing through the meager latticework of fibers that constitutes their human's backpack.

 

Finally, for the first time in what feels like a while, they are alone.

 

**_Where are we?_ **

 

It’s easy for them to get lost, with the hardwood floor so flat and expansive and only microscopic divots providing any indication of direction. Likewise, their lunette eyespots have some difficulties in adjusting to the demarcations between one object to the next, unable to recognize any symbols that align with those in their preferred-host’s shitty apartment.

 

 **_Not home,_ ** they conclude.

 

Still, it’s not enough to prevent them from exploring the unknown. Though distant, the preferred-host’s vocal frequencies echoing in the backdrop are enough for them to know where to return should they choose to. And as they continue their languid slither, they are stopped when another creature approaches them unannounced.

 

**_Another potential hos--_ **

 

They don’t get to finish that train of thought before a set of jaws clamp over their entire body. It takes them a few moments before they realize they were eaten.

 

**_Well, then._ **

 

They’re only _slightly_ offended.

 

Even so, they’re far too smart to not grasp at the opportunity given, especially when it chooses to devour them. They grapple at it, pushing their tendrils outward to merge with their new host, melding their soma into the parenchyma of every inter and intracellular space they can occupy, sending microscopic pieces of their anatomy to course through each blood vessel, and --

 

\-- _Halle-fucking-lujah._ For the first time ages, they can _breathe_ without feeling their life drain from this acrid atmosphere.

 

 **_Host,_ ** they call out.

 

Their new canine host yelps with fear at the foreign body sensation.

 

 ** _Host,_** they announce again, and are rewarded with a weak whimper.

 

An inkling of doubt blossoms internally, because they’re not really sure if this the type of host they would really like to commit to. So powerful, yet so skittish. So caught under the tide of another, with barely any agency to call their own. So dependant on the one they call “master”.

 

And really, how easy it would be to simply commandeer this body for their own? To pilot this host as a vessel for their own bidding…

 

Despite this, it’s not in their vocabulary to simply hijack a host like that, with their inclination still toward symbiosis and mutualism as was the mantra of their upbringing. They admit, to much regret, that they need a type of guidance that this host will not be able to provide.

 

 _WHO ARE YOU,_ demands Willy.

 

**_Yours, for now. We stay here for a while._ **

 

_GET OUT!_

 

They ignore him with a silent eye-roll, because they have no intention to leave while they continue to recuperate for lost time and resources. Really, they would respect his wishes more if not for the fact that this host just _literally_ tried to eat them, which makes his wishes invalid at this point. And with so many of their memories missing, they take this opportunity to learn more about their current host, snaking their tendrils around each fold of his cerebellum. Temporary they may be, but it's not without insight to this unfamiliar planet.

 

 **_Hmm,_ ** they wonder, twitching the new body experimentally.

 

It's strange to view the world through the lens of a quadrupedal vertebrate when compared to that of a hostless Klyntar. How bizarre, to experience the world chemically with one single organ dedicated to olfaction, whereas their own body is composed entirely with chemical receptors. Exploring the world with padded feet, with fur, and viewing the world with dichromatic eyes instead of the full spectrum that they're used to seeing with their opalescent eyespots. Still, as they flip through the archives of his thoughts, they're able to import more into the bank of their phonetic knowledge, far faster than if they were to do so unbonded. This host doesn't have the appropriate anatomical structures in place to create the wealth of sounds that their preferred-host can make, but they are privy to the meanings of some spoken language: _sit, stay, walk, beg._

 

 _Yes and no_ \-- they're kind of proud for having learnt those ones already.

 

Their host whines emphatically and paces across the hardwood floor, wanting desperately to be rid of the foreign voice in his head. And from his demonstration, they in turn learn how to form canine vocal chords to simulate the same sounds.

 

 _ **Who is “master,”** _ they ask.

 

The host doesn't tell them so much as _show_ them, because at the mere mention of his “master”, his tail begins to whip back and forth, his heart races pleasantly, and the most unexpected of his reactions is this immediate swell of dopamine and phenylethylamine to his mesolimbic pathway. And it's kind of frightening for them to suddenly become so swept away with this high, this moonstruck affection that makes them feel so good even with borrowed neurotransmitters.

 

And, just like that, their mind expands.

 

Growing and spreading like a drop of ink in water as it allows them to see, to really understand, the unlikely relationship between humankind and their canine companions. At its base, it’s one of loyalty and subservience in exchange for food and protection, but there’s so much familial affection between the two parties that often times, the roles can be reversed. And like all relationships, there are ups and downs and so much room for miscommunication, but it’s held strong by devotion.

 

**_… Oh._ **

 

… And that’s the only relationship that their preferred-host understands, isn’t it?

 

With no framework to go by, all the preferred-host sees is the amicable connection between man and dog. To him, _they’re_ his weird-looking dog, _they're_ his weird-looking quadrupedal beast. He’s not looking at it as host and passenger, so it’s no wonder they are constantly being turned away.

 

And this is _not_ the type of relationship they want. Not one of subservience, no, because they should _both_ be wearing the metaphorical pants. Though as of now, there’s still no pants to be worn either way.

 

Still, they desire to learn more about this man-dog relationship.

 

**_We go to see “master”?_ **

 

_YES!_

 

The canine’s ears are so finely attuned to the vocal frequencies of his master, so they simply follow the sounds echoing against the walls until they reach the room where they last saw their preferred-host. But his master is not alone. His master is still caught in a conversation with their preferred-host.

 

“ænd wʌt əˈbaʊt New Life Plus? aɪ hir jʊr ðə ˈspoʊkspərsən fɔr ðɛr laɪn ʌv ˈprɑdəkts.”

 

“nɑt ə ˈspoʊkspərsən, nɑ, bʌt ðeɪ du ˈspɑnsər mi tu tɔk əˈbaʊt ðɛr ˈprɑdəkts. ðɛr ə greɪt ˈkʌmpəni, baɪ ðə weɪ. əˈmeɪzɪŋ ˈvaɪtəmənz ænd ˈʤusəz. ˈdɛfənətli hɛlps wɪð maɪ ˈfɪgjər, jæ?”

 

Their host sees it differently, however.

 

_DANGER. THREAT._

 

**_Hmm?_ **

 

They feel his hackles and his temperature rise, bending to the will of his primal instinct, to defend his possessions in a clash of teeth and rage -- all directed at their preferred-host.

 

They _panic._

 

 ** _No,_** they stress to their host.

 

_INTRUDER. FOREIGNER. DANGER. THREAT._

 

**_Not dangerous!_ **

 

“wʌt əˈbaʊt ðə ˌtrænsfərˈ--”

 

Their host lets out a sharp cry of warning, alerting both the master and preferred-host to stop and look their way.

 

“haʊd ju gɛt aʊt, Willy?”

 

They can sense his intentions, but it’s not with enough advanced notice before Willy charges at their preferred-host, with every fiber of his being focused on the sole objective of _maiming._

 

_INTRUDER! PROTECT MASTER!_

 

**_Stop!_ **

 

But they’re so small and weak, and still in wake of recovery. So how can they possibly exert enough power to dominate their host’s myofibrils, or stop the endless flow of acetylcholine, or --

 

At the last moment, they dig their tendrils _deep_ into his cerebral cortex and takes full command for themself. Their host imparts a final yelp before they relinquish the wheel.

 

“--Gɑɑɑɑ!”

  
“Willy!”

 

“fʌk! fʌk! fʌk!”

 

“Willy, gɛt ɔf ʌv hɪm!”

 

“fʌk, fʌ… wʌt?”

 

**_Oops._ **

 

Perhaps they’ve dug in their tendrils too deep this time, because they’ve accidentally triggered that release of dopamine and phenylethylamine again from their host’s ventral striatum, and suddenly they’re so suffused with joy and affection that they can barely control themself. It’s not that they didn’t feel these things before, but the influx of the host’s neurotransmitters only serve to elevate their pre-existing notions in a way that makes them want to bite back tears of happiness.

 

“wʌt ði--?”

 

They climb onto preferred-host lap as a clumsy flurry of paws. Because, goodness! Their preferred-host is so lovely and beautiful, so caring and charming and **_STUPID_ ** but also perfect in all the ways that they could ever possibly want.

 

“heɪ ðɛr, bɪg gaɪ! woʊ!”

And, yeah, he’s spurned them again and again due to his lack of understanding, but gosh! Wouldn’t it also be lovely if they could just take this current host’s body for their own and live together, happily ever after, healthy and not dying from this planet’s atmosphere while also constantly in the strong and caring arms of the one they love the most?

 

To stay, forever, with their preferred-host. Their bipedal flesh-wallet. Their loveable meat bun.

 

And yeah, that.

 

_**Love.** _

 

That’s a new emotion that they haven’t learned of until now, and what a powerful, all-encompassing emotion. So satisfying and freeing! Maybe it’s what they’ve felt before, but this canine has blessed them with a concrete definition that they can finally use to qualify it. They’re so happy that all they can do is whine helplessly in this perfect being’s arms, whipping their tail and licking his face, praying that this simple action is enough to transfer all of their intent toward him, because even if he doesn’t think highly of himself at times, _they_ do, and will always do so.

 

“Willy, wʌt ɑr ju ˈduɪŋ? wʌts ˈgoʊɪŋ ɑn?”

 

Their bliss gets interrupted the moment they feel a hand on their collar, and it almost makes them snap.

 

How _dare_ this disgusting, dick-sucking creature with his disgusting hands and disgusting face place his fingers on them when they’re trying to show the full gamut of their love to their darling meatsicle?

 

They drive their host to growl possessively, even though they feel their host try to deny this action in the quiet backdrop. The master lets go, allowing them to return to their affections.

 

“wʌt ɑn ɜrθ…” wheezes the master.

 

“ʌ, ɪz ðɪs ə ˈkɑmən θɪŋ?”

 

Even if it’s unintelligible, preferred-host’s voice is like dreamy, rustic chimes in the a gentle wind.

 

“noʊ…? ðɪs hæz ˈlɪtərəli ˈnɛvər ˈhæpənd bɪˈfɔr. laɪk aɪ sɛd, Willy heɪts ˈstreɪnʤərz. aɪ hæv noʊ aɪˈdiə waɪ ju ˈhæpən tu bi ən ɪkˈsɛpʃən.”

 

"oʊ..."

 

They sigh contentedly, resting their head in the crook of preferred-host’s neck to indulge in the serenity, with his natural aroma enveloping them and the thrum of his heartbeat next to their ears. They love him, so much, even if he’s a clueless fucking **_IDIOT_ ** who almost let them die but _still,_ they’re alive now, and they’re happy and together like this.

 

Their preferred-host asks the master, “du aɪ smɛl laɪk dog-ˈhɛroʊən ɔr ˈsʌmθɪŋ?”

 

“... nɑt ðæt aɪm əˈwɛr ʌv?”

 

The high is so pleasant and lulling, and even more so when the preferred-host begins to graze his hands along their back, once again with that tenderness that makes their entire body tingle with euphoria. Because even if it’s not that of a host and Klyntar, the connection between man and dog is so sweet and endearing that it’s almost enough to convince them to pilot this current host forever if it means they can stay like this. They’re so at peace that they almost miss the moment when “master” tries to lean in again to disrupt their idyllic connection.

 

They growl unabashedly, and the master backs off.

 

“kəˈmɑn, boy. ɔf ju goʊ,” says the preferred-host, gesturing for them to get off.

 

It’s enough to finally jolt them from their tranquility. They feel themself slowly returning to Earth. Again, a spike of betrayal courses through them when the preferred-host pats them on the head and hints for them to leave, with his message so much clearer with their host’s knowledge on human body language.

 

They lean back and run a tongue defiantly across their face again, as if to say _make me._

 

He makes them.

 

The final dredges of their host’s influx of neurotransmitters are depleted, coinciding with another one of preferred-host’s rejection. And when they return to their unaltered, baseline mood, they…

 

They realize they just got high off of snorting a dog’s brain water.

 

They shift away with their tail between their legs, whimpering in the shame of their uncontrolled behaviour. They relinquish some measure of control back to their host.

 

 _NOT COOL,_ huffs Willy with annoyance.

 

Even _they_ understand the error of their ways.   ** _We are sorry._ **

 

They feel their host groan unhappily, though at least their previous aggression toward the preferred-host has been extinguished. They begin to slowly withdraw their tendrils from his cerebral folds, but not all of them, choosing to keep a few remaining tendrils in place as contingency. Both the creature and canine watch as another unintelligible exchange of words fly between “master” and preferred-host, and when the preferred-host gets up to leave, another struggle ensues between them and the will of their current host.

 

“Willy, _stay,_ ” commands the master, glowering at them with a vexation of one that is not usually disobeyed. They look back and forth between the master and preferred-host with apprehension.

 

 _SHOULD LISTEN TO MASTER,_ their host suggests.

 

**_Don’t want to._ **

 

“Stay,” the human commands again.

 

 _SHOULD STAY LIKE MASTER SAYS,_ stresses their host.

 

 **_Don’t like your master,_ ** they reply.

 

 _MASTER IS PERFECT,_ he gasps affronted.

 

**_No. Other human is perfect._ **

 

_YOUR HUMAN IS DANGEROUS!_

 

**_No! Other human is better and smells nice, like day-old sweat._ **

 

_YOU ARE WRONG!_

 

**_Your human is ugly and smells bad!_ **

 

_FIGHT ME!_

 

The internal exchange is cut short when the preferred-host makes a mad dash toward the washroom and locks the door behind him. Again, it’s that goddamn tease, where he makes them feel like there’s a beautiful connection blossoming between the two of them before he runs away at the first sign of intimacy, making them vibrate with distress. They reach into their host’s brain to pilot them again, forcing Willy to shove their collective olfactory organ into the crack of the doorway.

 

“oʊ, kʌm ɑn! liv ðə pur mən əˈloʊn,” calls the master in the distance.

 

_GO TO MASTER._

 

**_No!_ **

 

_OTHER HUMAN SHUTS YOU OUT!_

 

**_N-no..._ **

 

_OTHER HUMAN DOESN'T WANT YOU._

 

… They don’t reply.

 

A diminutive part of them deflates pathetically.

 

Because after every single attempt that they’ve made to establish a bond, it’s difficult for them to really disagree with their current host’s assessment. It’s a quiet fear they’ve been avoiding, burying it deep into the recesses of their thoughts -- but to hear it uttered so plain and clearly is just really, really.... shitty.

 

“stɑp ɪt, ju ˈdʌmi. Come here!”

 

So with a heaving sigh, they finally withdraw their tendrils completely, allowing their host to regain complete agency over his body. They force themself to re-coalesce every fragment of their body, away from his brain, away from their connection to the outside world, and settle in their host’s stomach to deliberate over this notion. It’s demoralizing, because even though they’ve recuperated so much of their livelihood during this short bond, there’s now a new blanket of worry and misery that drapes itself over their psyche, rendering them useless and feeling even worse than their physical sickness.

 

 **_Does preferred-host not want us?_** They ask into the void, not expecting a response. Unfortunately, it’s not a question that they can answer themself either.

 

But so far? The tenuous relationship between themself and their human hasn’t been exactly confidence inspiring. Sure, preferred-host keeps them so close to his person, and it’s obvious that he’s drawn by a similar attraction that _they_ have to him, but to them, the end result is still unknown.

 

They may bond. They may also never bond.  It’s hard for them to say.

 

… But their relationship with this disaster dumpling hasn’t been _bad_ either.

 

With the gaps in their memories so dilated and prevalent, they don’t have much to use as a frame of reference. But even so, they choose to believe that even _they_ can tell when they’ve managed to sink their metaphorical hands into something good. Because how often will someone save a potentially dangerous alien, unlike anything they’ve ever seen or known, then decide, willingly, to nurse them back to good health to the best of his abilities? Even after they’ve been a brat the whole time? And despite his inability to communicate with them, he has chosen to try, again and again, even if it mostly ends in failure.

 

… Even if the preferred-host may not want them, they’ve come to the realization that _they_ don’t want to leave his side either way. He's a rare form of perfection that they would be foolish to give up.

 

It’s also clear that they can’t stay with this current host forever. With a decisive sigh, they slowly drag themself away from the stomach and back to their host’s cranium, realigning themself with the outside world again. For now, they play the role of a silent observer, watching their host and their “master” interact without interference.

 

The master sighs. "ju ˈfaɪnəli ˈlɪsən tu mi naʊ, hʌ?"

 

Their host wags his tail with excitement, reading his “master’s” softening tone that melds into one of familial fondness.

 

“Come here, ju dʌm dog."

 

Willy approaches him and jumps into “master’s” outstretched arms with an unmatched eagerness. The same dopamine surge recurs, not as powerful as the last time, but the creature chooses to keep their tendrils to themself this time, acutely aware of how addicting and potentially destructive those neurotransmitters can be. Still, they are privy to the racing happy thoughts that takes flight across their host’s head, and it’s hard for them to not feel a bit of the shared joy too.

 

Yet when they finally reconnect with their host’s brain to take in the world again through his dichromatic eyes, there’s just something a bit disconcerting about this “master” fellow. And it’s not that he’s ugly, per se, because _they’re_ not connoisseurs in qualifying beauty in human terms, but there’s something about his aura that is slightly off-putting. It’s difficult for them perceive him vividly, like analyzing one’s own distorted reflection when you stare at a mirror for too long.

 

And the more time they spend in his presence, up close and personal to his face, the less and less they comprehend.

 

They finally realize it has to do with his _scent._

 

 **_Bad smell,_ ** they remark.

 

Their taciturn host gives them a mental shrug, deciding that it is beneath him to reply.

 

But they weren't kidding when they told the host that “master” smells bad. And it’s not a strong smell either, so there isn’t enough of the aerosolized compounds for them to truly identify the smell. But there’s something about this natural fragrance that triggers them to feel a distress, a discomfort and… sadness. Akin to feeling one gets while watching the last few solar flares drape across the surface of a dying star.

 

**_Ugh..._ **

 

Yeah, his essence is inexplicably wrong and sends a harrowing chill across the surface of their body. They need to get out of here.

 

And more than anything, they need to return to their preferred-host.

 

“Good boy,” master says affectionately, and it makes them physically _quake_ with disgust.

 

Fortunately, the master is the first to break away when the small metal device, used to transmit acoustic vibrations over distances, calls for his attention. He pulls it from his pocket and speaks to it, as if answering to the voice of a ghost in the room, before he begins to pace and walk away.

 

With his presence finally gone, they feel relief.

 

 **_Your master smells bad,_ ** they repeat.

 

_NO._

 

They give up, and they both agree to disagree.

 

Given this opening, they take this moment to drag their host back to the backpack holding their glass home, to which their host obliges with the promise of them leaving his body. And while neither of them have gotten along very amicably, it’s still unconventional for them to willingly leave a warm and healthy host in exchange for being alone.

 

They pulsate nervously as their departure looms ominously between them, not quite ready to leave yet.

 

 _I GET IT NOW,_ muses Willy as he hovers his canine snout over the glass opening.

 

**_Oh?_ **

 

 _YES,_ he chuckles. _HE’S YOUR “MASTER”._

 

They stay silent for a while.

 

They don’t really feel inclined to correct their current host, nor do they feel like explaining the relationship that a Klyntar and host should have to one that wouldn’t understand it, even though that exact relationship currently exists between themself and Willy. But even if his observation is incorrect, they’re grateful for his attempt at empathy by drawing it to concepts he’s familiar with. A dog’s version of reassurance.

 

 **_Yes,_ ** they finally reply, partially agreeing with his assessment.

 

 _BE GOOD TO HIM,_ he warns them lightheartedly.

 

**_We will._ **

 

And it’s the last time they ever speak before they slip out from his mouth and back into the jar, seconds before their preferred-hosts interrupts this bittersweet farewell.

 

“heɪ! gɛt əˈweɪ frʌm ðæt!”

 

As they watch their beloved meatloaf return to slide protectively between themself and their former host, they feel a bit more like themself, with their body re-energized and their resolve renewed. They watch with a bit of wonderment as this clumsy bastion safeguards their body with his own, even while knowing how much danger their ex-host can impart on his physical form. And that, in turn, brings an inexplicable swell of feel-good chemicals to flood their soma, introducing a gentle high of their own. Completely without the influence of neurotransmitters from another.

 

Venom feels warm and happy, knowing that they can finally quantify this feeling as _love._

 

As a final goodbye, Willy licks the hand of preferred-host and departs, leaving just the preferred-host and themself to be alone. The preferred-host finally turns back to them, to which they swirl excitedly as the sole beneficiary of his attentions again.

 

“ʌ, aɪ gɛs jʊr ˈfilɪŋ ˈbɛtər naʊ?”

 

Of course they don’t understand these phonetic symbols, but as always, his tone is gentle and reassuring.

 

 **_Yes,_ ** they reply arbitrarily, though they communicate this with their gentle expiration of air: “ssss.”

 

The preferred-host watches them with an expression they assume to be confusion, and it brings an awareness to the barriers they have to overcome. But even as they collectively leave this not-home building of weird smells and weird creatures, Venom continues to feel that cozy pleasantness wrap around their body, simulating the warmth of safety and protection. Because it’s rare, so rare, and it’s not everyday that their species can form such a connection with another person while not even bonded, but the unspoken magnetism that he has to them, and vice versa, is enough to give them _hope_ for the future.

 

 **_Soon,_ ** they decide, as they make their way home.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a weird-looking dog you got there, eddie
> 
>  


	7. The Cleanse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyyyy y'all.... thanks for waiting.
> 
> This is just a heads up that there's a bit of NSFW in this chapter, so if you're not into that, maybe skip this one! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 

 

 

The term “self-care” is an all-over, euphemistic statement that encompasses various forms of self-mutilation.

 

Or at least that’s how Eddie Brock sees it as he, a wheezing, red-faced troglodyte, steadily climbs up the steep hills of his city.

 

_“... People will often enter into a compulsive pursuit of ego-gratification and things to identify with in order to fill this hole they feel within…”_

 

That serene, unflappable narrating voice of his self-help audiobook is almost insulting when compared to breadth of Eddie’s torment. He wants to scream. His entire body is screaming with agony, with the sole exception of his lungs which _would_ be screaming, if not for the fact that they’re too preoccupied with supplying air to the rest of his screaming body to do so. Because powerlifting is easy, but cardio? Eddie is almost certain that this fabled “runner’s high” is an elaborate hoax, fabricated by the government into fooling gullible individuals, such as himself, into doing something called “running for fun”.

 

Because there is no high! Just pain and torment.

 

_“... so they strive after possessions, money, success, power, recognition, or a special relationship, basically so that they can feel better about themselves, feel more complete…”_

 

His only consolation is that it’s far too early for anyone to see him as he hobbles, like an undignified gargoyle, up the creaky steps that lead back to his apartment. By the time he finishes fumbling with the keys and gets inside, his lungs feel like an arson's playground.

 

“Fuck self-care,” he gasps with his hands on his knees, begging death to relieve him from his mortal coil.

 

Yet he eventually catches his breath, and there’s some satisfaction in completing a task he has been avoiding for so long. He recognizes that one of the true advantages of being an early riser is that there’s more time in his day to leisurely lounge around, guilt free. With his heartrate slowly returning to his baseline, he checks up on the creature who is also lounging happily in the jar next to his bed.

 

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

 

They twirl excitedly in the jar as a response, bringing a smile to Eddie’s sweat-drenched face. It slowly fades when he notices a strange texture on their body, forming microscopic criss-crossing, erratic networks of fibers under the surface of their goo.

 

“... Huh. You're looking kind of ugly today,” he remarks. “Did you roll around in the mud or something?”

 

The creature's eyes widen without comprehension.

 

“Hm.”

 

Eddie squints at the creature, turning the jar to examine their strange, new texture more closely. And unfortunately, the texture is prevalent, seemingly affecting every single square inch of their soma. Eddie suspects it is likely immersed throughout their entire body, including the parts beneath their surface that he’s unable to see.

 

“Hand?”

 

They don’t understand him, of course, but when he displays his own palm faced up, they project a single tendril toward him, formatting the tip into the likeliness of Eddie’s palm. Eddie accepts the facsimile into his own outstretched hand and begins to prod at the shapely goo, unveiling the fibres beneath their surface.

 

“... Is this hair?”

 

Eddie realizes, with horror, that it’s not hair; _it’s fur._ Dog fur, to be exact.

 

It seems that again, that goddamn Doberman is out to ruin his life. He releases the creature’s hand in exchange for his head, and in a mixture of half-laugher and half-crying hysteria: “My murder pudding is covered in dog fur and I don’t think a lint roller is gonna cut it.”

 

The creature waves their own hand before their eyespots to quietly observe the shifting fibers under their amorphous flesh. Their eyes return to Eddie when he reaches for their hand again.

 

“Fuck. Okay, let’s just… try this again.”

 

It doesn’t work quite as he anticipated. After fumbling around for about 5 minutes with his beefy man-fingers, he only manages to pry out a couple strands of fur from that single tendril alone, and the rest remain adamant on being lodged into their body as is. Some of the pieces get lodged in even further when the strands break half-way through the extraction. It seems like a fruitless cause at this point, because there _must_ be a more efficient approach.

 

Somehow, at the back of his mind, he recalls the household recipe for removing bubblegum from hair using peanut butter. And though it’s a stretch, what exactly is this creature if not just a piece of malleable, gothic bubblegum? And though dog fur doesn’t exactly have the same texture as human hair, are they both not structures comprised mainly out of keratin?

 

He shrugs. _Worth a shot._

 

Eddie drags the creature with him as they both enter the kitchen in search of the elusive condiment. He locates it at the back of his fridge and dips his fingers along the sides of the container, coating his digits with peanut butter. With his free hand, he gestures for the creature to present their tendril to him again, in which they have learned to do so by now.

 

But the act of spreading the butter on the creature proves to be much more difficult than expected as well, because the creature is a living being, capable of thought and language, and more curious than they have any right to be. The moment Eddie begins trying to spread the butter on their limb is the moment they stretch their main body outward, inching closer toward the affected limb to curiously observe his actions.

 

He swats their face away with a gentle wave. “Hey, cutie. Shoo, I’m trying to work here.”

 

They ignore him and easily maneuver their body around his spurning motions. Eddie turns to retrieve more peanut butter from the jar, and when he returns, the dollop that was previously on the creature’s tendril is missing.

 

“Wh-”

 

There is, however, just a trace left on the corner of the creature’s lower jar.

 

“Oh, COME ON!”

 

He tries again, but his efforts are constantly met in vain. Because this time, the creature doesn’t even try to wait for Eddie to turn away before they start to lap the condiment off their body. And when they finally run out of peanut butter to eat off their tendril, they quickly resort to eating it from the source: Eddie’s fingers.

 

“Uh--”

 

A subtle, pink glow blossoms on Eddie’s cheeks as he watches. The creature’s carmine tongue wraps around the tips of his fingers in an inviting mix of hunger and desperation that sends a spike of arousal to his skin. He knows, with certainty, that he’s truly losing it, or it must be the deprecating effects of touch-starvation that has gone to his head, because there is no reason for this to be so tantalizing to watch.

 

It’s only when the creature has licked every inch of his fingers clean that he finally wakes from his reverie and pulls away.

 

“Oh…” he breathes.

 

Shame doesn’t even begin to cover it. He wipes the trail of the creature’s saliva against his pants before he backs away feeling light headed.

 

He paces around the kitchen in horror, trying desperately to forget the physiological response that just occurred. And… this isn’t the time for him to be worried about that anyway, because he needs to focus on finding a solution that will effectively remove all the dog fur from the creature’s gooey soma. He can worry about his traitorous dick later.

 

“Fuck,” he repeats. “Let’s, uh..! Let’s try something else, alright?”

 

The creature releases an unexpected whine that scares Eddie shitless. His jaw drops.

 

Unsatisfied with that ephemeral introduction to peanut butter, the creature whines again in want of more. With Eddie's confusion halting his every action, the creature sees it upon themself to acquire more, so they project a tendril toward the golden condiment. Eddie quickly snatches the container away just before their tendrils reach their objective.

 

“That’s--! Um. That's new. When the hell did you learn to do that!?”

 

The creature whines again, staring pitifully at Eddie with large, watery eyespots that appear even more prismatic than usual. Eddie almost drops the peanut butter in response as he feels his resolve melt under the intensity of their gaze and finds himself breaking eye contact first. Eddie forces the air from his lungs as he hangs his head in defeat.

 

“Okay, fine. You can have more, alright? I really don’t know how I keep turning into the villain here.”

 

This time, at least he’s smart enough to use a spoon while delivering more into their eager mouth. And while the creature enthusiastically laps away at the sticky condiment, Eddie supports his head with his free hand as he deliberates his next step.

 

Even though the creature can easily change shape and texture, as well as vary in hardness and density upon will, Eddie stills classifies them as a liquid, primarily. And as a dense, viscous liquid, Eddie is almost sure that they’re immiscible with water as this was proven during that time when they spat water at his face after learning how to brush their teeth. So he figures that water, in itself, should be harmless.

 

_Right?_

 

They're finished with the spoon and are fighting to remove the last dredges of PB from their teeth when he looks up. Eddie snorts, feeling his cheeks bunch into a warm grin.

 

“Sir Jellybean, you ready for the next test?”

 

The creature blinks curiously at his tone, and Eddie shrugs as he decides to proceed.

 

“Please don’t dissolve or drown, please don’t dissolve or drown..”

 

He mutters to himself as he places the opening of the creature’s enclosure under the kitchen tap. He allows it to run with a light flow, and for long enough to submerge their body under 1 inch of water which should be just enough to test the creature’s subaquatic abilities. Eddie figures that if they ever feel deprived of oxygen, they can easily stretch their noodle-like body above the waterline to breathe.

 

But after a few seconds, the creature simply floats in the shallow water like an ameboid pool toy, staring at Eddie with confusion etched into their expression.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

It’s hard not to laugh when they’re looking at him like a distressed cat under the effects of zero gravity, stretching their body into odd configurations in order to maximize control over their own orientation. There’s only so much they can do with the limited space, but they eventually manage to anchor themself to the side of the jar. Eddie’s biting back tears as he places the jar under the sink again, filling it to the brim which further disorients the creature and causes some parts of their body to bleb apart, like droplets of black tapioca.

 

Eddie snorts, unable to contain his giddiness. “Holy shit…!”

 

He grabs the only clean spoon from his cutlery drawer and gives the amorphous creature a quick swirl, causing more of their body to break apart into obsidian micelles that gently flow with and against each other, occasionally bumping and merging into other pieces, occasionally splitting apart. Eddie knows how stupid he currently looks, but in a stroke of serendipitous brilliance, he turns on the flash of his phone and places it directly under the jar, highlighting each beautiful blob as it bumps and oozes past each other.

 

“Eddie Brock, you fucking genius.”

 

He backs away with his hands stretched behind his head to admire his magnum opus.

 

“Behold! The first-ever sentient lava lamp! Now in the color: goth.”

 

He’s laughing so hard that tears are forming in the corner of his eyes. “I’m gonna post this shit on Youtube and rake in the ad revenue. Maybe even set up a livestream.”

 

But he doesn’t, of course, because he knows some overzealous PETA-devotee is going to call “animal abuse” on him. And, hilarity aside, mixing the creature with water and doesn’t do much except disorient and maybe annoy them for a bit, but it’s harmless otherwise. When they finally manage to reorient themself, the creature re-coalesces each free-floating blob back into their center body and adjusts their buoyancy to sink to the bottom of the jar. Several clusters of hydrophobic fur float at the top of the water, which Eddie scoops out with his hand and washes away in the sink.

 

He expels his breath and relishes in the feeling of confidence budding in his chest, because very rarely do his ideas actually work, and never with as much entertainment value as this one.

 

Feeling the effects of the morning-jog still weighing heavily on his muscles and the sweat now dried and uncomfortable on his skin, he realizes that he also shouldn’t forgo his own hygiene. Eddie picks up the jar and cradles it in his hands while he relocates the creature and himself to the bathroom. He gently places the jar at the edge of his sink and gives the creature another swirl with the handle of their toothbrush before he turns to the bathtub.

 

“Hm.”

 

Eddie rests one hand on his hip as he debates over whether he should have a shower, like a grown-ass adult male, or whether he should have a bath, also like a grown-ass adult male. It’s not a terribly difficult decision, and he inevitably settles on the latter because he _ran_ today. And not only that, but last night, he managed to finish his write-up on Chris Rouge and submit both the written and filmed material to Diane in record time. An accomplishment such as that deserves a reward, and if he wants to sink into a microcosm of his own sweat-water like a filthy animal, then he will do so. He allows the tap to run until the water turns hot, then plugs in the stopper for the water to rise. He doesn't have any bubble bath, but he does have an almost-empty jug of eucalyptus magnesium salts, leftovers from his most intensive weightlifting days, which he tips into the tub.

 

As the water level continues to rise, Eddie realizes that the last key ingredient necessary to make this perfect is a cold, shitty beer. He goes back to his kitchen and rummages through the fridge to find one of his last bottles of garbage-water, then returns to his bath that is nearly full.

 

It’s not the first time he’s been naked in the presence of his ameboid friend, so he strips off his sweat-stained t-shirt and shorts and steps into the bath, sighing as the hot water, just short of scalding, swallows his lower legs. He eases himself slowly, allowing his body to become accustomed to the temperature change before he fully sinks into the bliss, allowing his body and taut muscles to come undone in the welcoming heat. As an adult male, it’s difficult for him to submerge his full body beneath the water, so he must bend his knees and have them peek above the water like fleshy islands, but it’s still perfectly fine.

 

He takes a swig from his open bottle and sighs. It’s an unfitting luxury, but Eddie Brock truly enjoys his ghetto, post-workout baths. And maybe self-care doesn’t need to be so terrible, because baths are one of the few instances when he can completely forget about work, forget about finances, forget about relationships, forget about…

 

Anne.

 

His brows furrow with displeasure and he takes another swig. And another. And another.

 

He's been getting better at moving on from his past and she comes up less often to the forefront of his mind, but he still slips on occasion. He drains most of the bottle in one go -- for the sake of self-care, or whatever the current definition is -- and sighs contentedly. At least _this_ time, he catches himself before the spiral begins.

 

He takes one more gulp for good measure.

 

Eddie turns his head toward the creature at the sink gestures at them with his beer. “You doin’ alright up there, pudding cake?”

 

The creature has again recollected themself and blinks at Eddie from the distance.

 

“‘Aight.”

 

This time, with only his arm hanging over the side of the tub to hold his beer, he truly closes his eyes to relish in the cocoon of warmth that surrounds him.

 

Emptying his mind to no longer be a slave to their thoughts. Focusing on his unwinding muscles. The rise and fall of his breathing. Drifting…

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bliss is short-lived, because it’s interrupted by a gentle tug at his wrist. Eddie’s eyes snap open.

 

“Huh?”

 

The creature has a tendril wrapped around the base of his bottle, trying to discreetly remove it from Eddie’s hand.

 

“Babe, _please._ This isn’t for you,” he says, withdrawing his arm back into the tub. “This mode of poison is for-” he brings the bottle to his lips and drains the last mouthful in demonstration, “- _hic-_ human consumption only.”

 

The creature, undeterred by Eddie brushing them off, decides to stretch their body over and beyond the lip of the tub before they drop their entire mass onto the water.

 

“What the fuck!”

 

Eddie scrambles to his feet and slips, causing water to billow over the edge of the tub and onto the bathroom floor. He scrambles to find footing again before he finally manages to stand and make room for the creature, ominously submerged in the shallow waters.

 

“Oh my god, what the fuck, murder pudding. What the fuck. You’re insane.”

 

He shuts up when the creature begins morphing below the surface, stretching their nebulous form experimentally to occupy the wealth of space around them as if trying to renew life to their out-of-use limbs. Maybe it's the bath salts, maybe it's just the water itself, or maybe it's even caused by the few remaining pieces of dog fur still embedded into their flesh, but their surface pattern shifts, twisting to display a texture that Eddie has never seen before from them: pinpoint fractals of light reflect off their surface like tiny, celestial clusters beneath their surface, scintillating and almost dizzying in their otherworldly nature.

 

“What are you…?” he asks in rhetoric. He feels his breath drain from his lungs as he become drawn into their unorthodox beauty...

 

The creature responds by pooling their body back to the center, almost returning to their familiar, blob-shaped form, but with a series of short tendrils that project in all directions, like an octopus that learned to count past 8 and then couldn't stop. Eddie eventually sits at the edge of the tub to watch the creature glide through the water, thrusting themself forward in a fashion that's similar to a squid, but rather than redirecting their existing tentacles to change direction, they simply create new ones as needed and reabsorb ones that are not necessary. Eddie wiggles his toes in the water and chuckles as the creature darts back and forth, undulating their body to swim between his legs like pillars.

 

A chill brushes along his bare skin, gently reminding him to get back into the water. Gingerly, he lowers his body back into the welcoming warmth of the tub and sits with his legs stretched out. The creature glides playfully around his inviting hands, always taunting and just out of reach, maneuvering too quickly around Eddie’s fingers for him to catch them.

 

“C’mere, you lil’ butthead.”

 

The creature relents their motions and simply floats on top of the water like a ball. But when Eddie reaches toward their body, they quickly dart away from his hands again.

 

“God dammit!”

 

In defiance, Eddie quickly pushes his palm perpendicular to the surface to send a wave of water toward the creature. Not expecting this, the creature’s body blebs apart from the splash. And when they manage to recollect their fragments, they whip their tendrils back to send water droplets flying toward Eddie. He chuckles and sends yet another wave, which the creature skillfully avoids by submerging their body beneath the surface. To retaliate, the creature forms a cavity with their body and propels themself forward, with enough momentum to send the biggest splash they can muster with their diminutive form.

 

“I give up! You win!”

 

Eddie holds out his hands defensively as the last wave hits him, and it has him grasping at his side with laughter. “Bested again by the murderous pudding!” The creature, satisfied with their victory, finally paddles over to their disarmed human. With a silly grin on his face, Eddie reaches out to receive them.

 

The creature releases a quiet whimper when Eddie cups the creature in his hands.

 

“Oh, shit!”

 

Still unused to the creature’s newfound ability to vocalise, Eddie quickly releases them again. Using his momentary shock, the creature slowly paddles away from his outstretched hands and closer, still, toward his center. Eddie leans back against the tub in astonishment, reacting too slowly as the creature settles against his chest, nestled right beneath the crook of his neck before they stop moving completely.

 

It takes him a moment before he realizes that this tiny, alien creature, is trying to cuddle with him.

 

“Wha…”

 

He didn’t expect this surge of emotion to overtake him either.

 

“Oh…” he sighs.

 

And he suspects that he really must be moon-touched or just desperate for any sort of affirmations available, because before he knows it, there’s a suffocating lump forming in his throat and his eyes begin to burn as tears gather at the lower brim. The creature shuffles against his body in confusion, twisting their body away to try to get a better look at their preferred-host.

 

“N-no, please,” he stutters as a quiet, happy sob bubbles from his chest. He gently pulls the creature back to his person, holding them flush against his chest and over his heart. The embarrassing reality of the situation is not lost on him -- Eddie Brock is a grown-ass man, red-faced and happy-crying in his dinky bathtub because he’s emotional over a piece of black bubblegum trying to show him affection -- but there’s some solace in knowing that at least there’s no one else here to witness it.

 

He misses human contact, so much.

 

The connection. The emotional fulfillment. And it’s not that being alone is a bad thing, because he _has_ grown in his months spent alone, albeit slowly. But as a social animal deprived of fulfilling relationships, it’s hard not to miss the companionship, and this creature’s simple but unadulterated affection has him suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

 

The creature, unsure of what to do with this unusual behaviour from their human, simply wavers in place as they wait for his lungs to settle. Eddie finally releases a shuddering sigh, resetting his emotions as his regular sinus breathing returns. Then slowly, the creature flattens their mass into a series of tendrils that wrap along his shoulders, his upper arms, and his chest. A touch of comfort, if you will, in the only way the creature knows how to express it.

 

Eddie feels the corners of his lips tug into a smile. “Thanks, pudding.”

 

The creature tightens their grasp on him as if providing an affirmation to his words.

 

But this smile quickly shifts to an open-mouthed horror as he feels the creature’s tendrils curl gently around his nipples.

 

“Uh,” he gasps, shifting as a fluttering sensation dances across his skin. “M-maybe not there?” He squirms pathetically. “Sweetheart?”

 

Eddie tries to gently pry the creature off his chest, but the creature reacts by clutching tighter to his skin, tugging gently at the erect buds of flesh beneath their writhing tendrils. They inadvertently draw a languid moan from Eddie’s lips. He sinks further into the tub with horror as his manhood twitches to life again.

 

_Uh oh._

 

The creature writhes innocently on his chest, happily trying to demonstrate their love and affection toward this dumpling of a human while Eddie feels his skin come alive with arousal. He slaps a wet hand over his mouth to stifle his voice, horrified by the creature's innocuous touch, and even more horrified by how much he enjoys it. He knows that what he _should_ be doing is prying the creature off his body, especially since they have no idea what they’re doing, nor are they aware of the implications of his biological reactions to their ministrations. But his resolve has been weakened after the cry, and though his mind is screaming _no_ , his body craves it.

 

_Is this really what it has come to, Brock?_

 

The creature shifts again and his legs squirm in agony. He tips his head back as he moans under their touch, not daring to touch himself, but his hips roll helplessly into the water in want of more as a shitty replacement for what he'd rather be doing instead.

 

At least now he gains some insight into the weird slime and tentacle pornography that he’s discovered to be so prevalent on the internet. Though this is not like the poorly-rendered subjects brought to life by sexually-frustrated virgins, he realizes that maybe the weirdness in itself is the appeal, and he really does begin to get it. And now with the creature, an actual physical being touching him like this despite their innocent intentions, Eddie realizes that he hasn’t been touched like this in what feels like ages – he bites down on his lips as his eyes roll back.

 

He allows the touch of comfort to continue longer than he’s willing to admit. Their slippery tendrils are just too good at rolling his sensitive flesh in a way that he doubts any tongue can easily imitate.

 

Eddie’s eyes finally snap back to attention when he feels a wet tendril touch his cheek. He’s in shock to find the creature, having stretched their body to orient their eyespots before his face, trying to understand why their preferred-host is acting so strangely with concern written onto their nacre eyes.

 

They blink at him curiously.

 

He blinks back, unsettled.

 

With the lessons on affection that they've garnered from their previous host still fresh in their mind, the creature brings their maw closer to his face before they drag their carmine tongue across the surface of Eddie's lips in a sloppy kiss.

 

“F-FUCK!”

 

Eddie whips the entirety of the creature's body off from his own and quickly gets out of the tub, almost slipping as he does so. He wraps his shivering body under a towel, ignoring the tenting at his hips as he distances himself from the creature.

 

“I…! I need to get laid,” he wheezes in disbelief, wrapping the towel even closer around his skin. He stares at the creature floating pitifully in the water, also watching Eddie with a desperate confusion.

 

“... Yup! I need to get laid,” he repeats after a moment, feeling his head reeling from all the blood pooled elsewhere in his body.

 

Guilt blossoms within his chest as the creature releases a quiet whine in consternation. “I'll, uh, I’ll be back!”

 

He quickly leaves the bathroom, abandoning the forlorn creature to their own devices. They whimper miserably at their sudden loss of his presence to no avail. It's just the sound of quiet waters swishing around the creature to occupy the silence.

 

Even if he hears their whine, it's not enough to convince him to return, so they shrivel back into a round mound and sink to the bottom of the fiberglass bath, wishing desperately to know what they did wrong.

 

The creature closes their eyes in defeat as the last few stands of fur are released from their body, floating gently to the surface.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeeyyyyyy!!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (I am not an animator, I apologize for the jankiness because I have no idea what I'm doing.)


	8. The Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh okay, lots of notes to start:
> 
> 1\. I apologize for the slowness of updates! I ended up getting sick, then got better, then got sick again, so it's been difficult to write in a timely manner. Thank you dudes for sticking around anyway, and happy holidays!
> 
> 2\. Thank you so much [LunaLeaf](https://twitter.com/cin_nic) from the giant [Symbrock discord server](https://discord.gg/QK7UYKr) for helping me beta this chap! Please head over to her Twitter and shower her with love. She also makes the coolest fandom-related laser cut art pieces so please go over there and just cry at how amazing she is.
> 
> 3\. Oh my god [PBnJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBnJ/pseuds/PBnJ) wrote two amazing fics inspired by this one. If you're a fan of saccharine sweetness and just being happy in general, please read their work: [How Festive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17172353/chapters/40375694), [XOXO](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082743)

 

 

 

It happens again. This time, it’s much worse.

 

Eddie lies awake at night with his eyes prickling with desiccation, an obvious indicator for how little sleep he will be receiving. He reaches for his phone to check at the time, then hesitates before he eventually places it face-down on the worn floor, away from his aching eyes. The last thing he needs is a reminder of the number of hours wasted in bed, waiting and waiting for the sweet reprieve of sleep that never actually comes.

 

It’s not his fault though. Worry does that, even to the most logical and emotionally stable humans, and Eddie is not someone who is normally classified as such.

 

He hoped it would have been similar to the previous time, where the creature’s health wanes for a few days before they make a miraculous recovery. But this time, the recovery never comes. Again, it began with the slowing of their responses, becoming more and more lethargic with each passing day, until their eyespots no longer swirl to life without strong prompting. It doesn't take a genius to know they're extremely sick, and it appears as if no deus ex machina will be extending an altruistic hand this time.

 

Eddie places a palm over his tightly sealed eyes, relishing in the slight warmth that eases their ache, but not by much. With his head hammering beneath his skull, he knows things are a mess -- _he's_ a mess. He's never been heralded as much of a genius or a hero, but it's always been his hubris that's kept him from reaching out for help or doing the most logical, sensible things. It's the same shit being churned, again and again, preventing him from moving forward.

 

But this time, he knows it’s beyond his capabilities.

 

His eyelids flicker open when his phone vibrates against the hard floor. The screen illuminates to show that it’s not even 7 in the morning - far too early for him to be awake on a day with no work scheduled, but it comes almost as a relief knowing that he no longer needs to cling to the false belief that he will be visited by sleep today. The sun hasn’t fully risen, but there’s enough of the dusk light to diffuse through the vapours of his breath. A cold morning, to be sure.

 

There’s an urgent text from Diane:

 

 

He pulls his blanket over his shoulders and expires to watch his breath bathe in the early morning glow before it mists away. Then, he begins to slowly stutter his frozen fingers across the screen. He doesn’t get very far with his response before he’s notified of an incoming call, as if Diane became too impatient to wait for his answer.

 

He stares at the screen, not really feeling inclined to respond to it because there's a special place in hell designated for those who call coworkers on their days off. With a lugubrious sigh, he eventually picks it up on the fourth ring and immediately regrets it.

 

“God! Fucking dammit! Eddie!”

 

He pulls the phone away from his ear and almost drops it on his face. If there was anything necessary to fully slap him out of his pre-awake oblivion, it would be the voice of a hysterical boss at far too early in the morning.

 

“Uh, yeah, Diane. Good morning to you too.”

 

“Dearest son. Please explain to me why the hell I'm dealing with a message from Chris’ agent telling us that we can't use the interview material?!”

 

Horror drops to the pit of his stomach. “What? It's been, like… a week since I did the interview. Why is he saying this now? Are… are you serious?”

 

“Yes, of course I'm serious! Why the fuck would I be calling you at the ass-crack of dawn, otherwise on your day off!”

 

“Uh, I don't know?” He wheezes. “Separation anxiety?”

 

_“Eddie!”_

 

“Right. Uh. Yeah. What did his agent say?”

 

“Lemme read it out to you! Word for word, it says: ‘Hi Diane, thanks for organizing the interview. Unfortunately, as Chris Rouge's manager, I must inform you that Chris does not want any material published from his interview with your columnist, William. Chris has informed me that your columnist acted in an extremely unprofessional manner during the interview and it caused my client severe distress,’ and then _blah, blah, blah_ \-- What in the ever-loving fuck, Eddie?”

 

He finally sits up from his brick-like mattress as dread fills his gut. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

She makes an exasperated noise on her end. “I don't. Fucking. Know!”

 

“I mean, you saw the footage, right? In which part of that was I unprofessional?”

 

“If I fucking knew, do you think I'd be calling you right now?”

 

“Huh. Good... point.” He rubs his neck with mortification. “Can you ask him to clarify which part of the interview was so upsetting, at least?”

 

There's an inhuman noise from the other end that forces Eddie to pull the phone away from his ear again. “Argh! Okay. Let me text this self-righteous bastard...”

 

Eddie waits anxiously, biting down on his lower lip as Diane furiously taps her acrylic nails against the glass surface of her cell phone, hoping it has nothing to do with the single question he managed to finish asking regarding the NewLife Plus sponsorship.

 

_It was only one simple question! That couldn't possibly be it._

 

“Okay. He's seen the message. Great! This high-horsed bitch-hole is typing back.”

 

“Right.”

 

Eddie hears the quiet ping from the other side. Diane doesn't respond for a while.

 

“... Christ.”

 

“Uh,” mutters Eddie, fighting to sound calm in the wake of his anxiety. “What’d he say?”

 

“Oh, you have _got_ to be joking.” Diane struggles to find words. “This…! This stupid fucking baby-faced Adonis is upset because his dog apparently decided he liked the smell of your BO more than Chris’ that day.”

 

“Woah. He's--” Eddie chokes. “He's jealous because his dog paid more attention to me for like, 5 minutes?”

 

“Yes! His dog. His mother fucking dog! Chris is all sad and insecure because apparently his dog fell in love with you during the interview and, for once in his bougie starlet life, he's not at the center of attention, so now his manager says we can't use any of the material.”

 

Eddie holds his pounding head in his hands. “Oh, fantastic.”

 

“Why the fuck do you need to go around charming everyone with those sexy lips of yours, including the fucking dog?”

 

“I--”

 

Eddie shuts his jaw and readjusts his thoughts. “Diane. What are you trying to imply? That I deliberately went out of my way to seduce Chris-McFuckin-Rouge's dog? That I showed up to his house dressed as fire hydrant or something?”

 

“I mean, did you?!”

 

Eddie's expression completely flat-lines. “Yes, Diane. That's exactly what I did. I rode 10 miles on my bike, from my home to Chris’ house, wearing a goddamn fire hydrant costume. I showed up at his door and did the whole interview dressed as one. And, while I was at it, I even laid down on the floor and let his dog piss all over me.”

 

“Okay! Okay! I get it! You don't need to highlight all the details of your piss kink, alright?”

 

“Hey--!”

 

She cuts him off with an audible groan.

 

“God dammit, Eddie. I hate these celebrity types! The insecure ones that have never had the attention _not_ on them? The ones that are so in love with the smell of their own farts that they'd bottle and sell that shit if they could? You've gotta be careful with them, y'know? One second they seem all well-adjusted, and then next moment they're plotting your downfall because they can't share the spotlight, and-- look. Sorry, I overreacted. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just-- I'm really stressed right now!”

 

“Yeah, I can tell,” he chuckles.

 

“Can you just please, please come in today and help me fix this mess? There's a whole stack of problems piling up in addition to this article fiasco at the office.”

 

He lets out a sharp exhale, feeling the edge of guilt twist in his stomach. “... I can't, Diane. Not today.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I've gotta… “ he spaces out for a second, with his gaze directed toward his crestfallen companion at his side. “Sorry. I need to bring my friend to the hospital. They're super sick.”

 

“Your friend,” she flat-lines.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Friend.”

 

“They’re really, really sick and have no one else to turn to.”

 

She pauses.

 

“Augh. Fuck! God damnit! I'll have to deal with this fucking mess myself.”

 

“I'm being serious!” He scratches his scalp with his frozen fingers. “I mean, did you tell him we're gonna cut that part out before we publish any write up or footage?”

 

Eddie pulls his phone away as the earpiece crackles again. “Of course I fucking did!”

 

“Diane.”

 

“What!”

 

He speaks quietly. “You're gonna be fine. You're an extremely capable woman. You somehow managed to pry Chris’ home address out of his agent-- which, may I add, is probably a _huge_ invasion of privacy! And, so, getting the ‘okay’ to print and post this interview? Piece of cake for you in comparison. Shit’s never stopped you before, right?”

 

There's a quiet pause as she contemplates his words before she expels a breath into the mic, resetting her nerves. “Yeah, okay. You're right.”

 

“‘Course I’m right. Also, Diane?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Top right drawer in your desk. The red tin box.”

 

“Y-yeah?”

 

“Smoke it.”

 

Diane rages with bewilderment. “How! How the fuck do you know where I keep my emergency stash, Eddie?!”

 

Eddie clutches his stomach as he gasps for air, chuckling with the full breadth of his body. “Probably ‘cause you keep offering it to me each time I go into your office?”

 

“Oh! Yeah, yeah. That’s right. Momma needs her meds sometimes.”

 

“Also. Diane?” He feels his lips twitching into a smile before he says it. “...You think I'm sexy?”

 

She scoffs with disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Eddie! I'm already dealing with one insecure wet-blanket on one end, I don’t have time to validate your crippling self-worth too!”

 

He rolls his eyes and laughs. “Right. Duh. Of course.”

 

She goes quiet for a second.

 

“...Are you 100% sure you can't come in today to help me?”

 

Eddie instinctively pulls the creature closer to his person. “... I can't. I really, really can't.”

 

He's almost able to hear the eyeroll in her voice as she finally gives up. “Then you better take some good fuckin’ care of your friend today, kid. See you at the office tomorrow.”

 

He doesn't get a chance to say goodbye before she hangs up. With that, he puts away his phone and his timely distraction is over, back to the dreary reality of his creature’s ailment. It wasn’t a great distraction either, as all the conversation has done is leave a bitter taste in his mouth and add another layer of anxiety to Eddie’s already unsettled psyche.

 

Eddie sighs as he returns his attention to the creature. By now, the creature is awake and staring at Eddie with their eye spots pitiful and swirling with delirium. Eddie twists off the lid and carefully runs his fingers across their body, acutely aware of how little resistance plays against his fingertips compared to their baseline, and his viscera twist with fear. He quickly withdraws his fingers from their body, afraid that anything he does will further taint their health.

 

The creature releases the quietest whimper that breaks his heart.

 

“Shh.. save your strength,” Eddie coos. He feels the corner of his eyes unexpectedly cresting with fluids, to which he closes his eyes to suppress the flow.

 

The creature falls silent.

 

“Hey buddy,” he whispers, “let’s… go get some help.”

 

As if granted a modicum of comprehension, just enough to understand his words, the creature tilts their face forward in a gentle “nod” before sealing their eyes shut.

 

But as it turns out, it’s far more difficult than anticipated, as Eddie calls up almost every veterinary hospital in the city that can possibly take in a new patient on such short notice. With no baseline to go off of, Eddie is clueless regarding the severity of the creature’s sickness, and his voice reeks of desperation with every clinic he calls. And to be fair, their rejections of his same-day appointments are completely founded too. How else is one supposed to respond when the voice of the deranged and desperate man on the other end isn’t even able to properly identify the species of their “pet” that he’s trying to arrange an appointment for?

 

In the end, they’ve all told him, in kinder and civil ways, to go pound sand.

 

There’s only one clinic that makes an exception and even then -- not really. Eddie almost feels bad for the lax and kind-hearted nature of the receptionist until he realizes that, no, he has no reason to feel bad for anything, because it’s not as if he speaks with any falsities.

 

“Pacific Animal Hospital, Chelsea speaking. How may I help you?”

 

“Yeah, uh, hi! Name is Eddie Brock. I’ve kind of? Kind of. Got an emergency. Do you accept same-day walk-ins?”

 

“Erm… not typically. But... hold on one second.”

 

Eddie waits as the sound of rapidly tapping keys fire through the earpiece.

 

“So, we normally don’t take same-day walk-ins, but there’s been a cancellation today. I can book you in with one of our vets later on this afternoon at 3:45, if that works for you?”

 

“3:45! Yeah that’s fantastic. You have no idea how grateful I am right now. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ so much.”

 

“Can I have the name of your pet to put in our system?”

 

Eddie hesitates, realizing that he’s never really settled on an official name for the creature, but the relief of finally having his request accepted is enough to make him overlook the stupidity of his answer. The first name that’s been uttered the most number of times spills from his lips before he has any chance to decide otherwise: “Uh, murder pudding.”

 

There’s a snort that pops through on the other end. “Murder… pudding?”

 

“Uh --” his cheeks instantly ignite with awareness. “You know what? It’s a work-in-progress. Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

 

Her giggle rumbles against his ear. “Okay, Eddie. What number can we use to contact you in case things don’t work out?”

 

“Just this number that I’m calling with.”

 

“Perfect. Please come 15 minutes early to the appointment so we can get your animal set up properly.”

 

“Thank you so much. Again, you’re a life-saver.”

 

The call ends, and Eddie slumps against his kitchen counter with an amalgamation of relief and some trepidation. It’s not… _his_ fault, is it? That this sweet receptionist forgot to ask him for the species and simply assumes that the creature he's bringing in is going to be an asshole dog or or an asshole cat. But now, he's successfully wedged himself into a timeslot, and whether or not they will honour that appointment time when he brings in the creature is out of his control.

 

But he’s not going to question it. Doesn’t know what he can possibly do otherwise.

 

* * *

 

Another bumpy ride through the city, and Eddie has the creature’s jar wrapped up in several layers of t-shirts to cushion the journey. He arrives a little earlier than necessary for the appointment because sitting at home, having fear and anxiety churning his insides into a butter, really has no appeal -- especially when compared to the clearing effects of cold wind rushing past his body as he flies through the streets on his bike. He whips off his helmet just before entering the building. A blast of warmth and multiple sets of eyes immediately turn to greet him, the newcomer.

 

It’s crowded. Somewhere in the waiting room, a distressed dog yaps in a carrier, and a caged bird squawks. The eyes of every visitor eventually turn away and return to their phones as Eddie makes his way to the reception station. He identifies the “Chelsea” he was speaking with earlier by her nametag, and she greets him with a practised smile.

 

“Hey. It’s Eddie Brock? I spoke with you earlier on the phone. I have an appointment at 3:45 today.”

 

“Hello, Eddie! Please grab a seat and fill out this form so I can enter your animal into the system.”

 

She hands him a clipboard and a pen, and he eventually finds an empty seat amongst the throng of pet-owners, settling down next to an handsome man with a cat on his lap sporting a bandaged paw. He places his backpack on his lap and begins to fill out the form.

 

Eddie doesn’t get very far down the list before dread stakes its claim on him again.

 

 

… This isn’t going well. Eddie clicks his pen impatiently as he mulls over his answers. He sees no benefit in lying, but his lack of concrete answers will be raising endless questions too. Regardless of what he chooses to write, the truth will inevitably come to fruition when the vet examines his companion.

 

He only stops clicking the pen when the cat beside Eddie swats their good paw against his jacket. The gentleman to his left speaks: “Mister Belvedere, _no._ ”

 

Eddie's eyes widen in recognition as he turns to face his neighbor. “I'm sorry, _what did you say?_ ”

 

The handsome neighbor chuckles. “Oh I'm sorry, that's the name of my cat.” He pauses, watching the sweat build up on Eddie's ever reddening face. “Hey -- you seem distressed.”

 

“I am,” he admits dourly, recognizing the small creature in the man's lap.

 

“You okay?”

 

Eddie grits his teeth. “I'm. Fine.” He lays the pen flat against the clipboard to halt his nervous tics. “S-sorry.”

 

He quickly turns away, but he’s sweating profusely and shifting uncomfortable in his chair. He needs to leave immediately. Realizing the futility of simply sitting and ruminating, Eddie gets up and anxiously returns to the counter with the clipboard before the man can prompt him for more of his personal life.

 

He clears his throat quietly. “Hey, Chelsea, I’m, uh… having some issues with this form. Not sure how to really answer a lot of these questions.”

 

She raises her brow. “Sure. Let me see what you’ve gotten written so far.”

 

Reluctantly, Eddie hands her the clipboard as his racing pulse pounds against his head. She skims across the empty spaces with consternation.

 

“... Slime?”

 

“Yeah, guess so.”

 

“Can I see, er, Mur-- Murder Pudding? Do you have them on you?”

 

Worry flowers into his gut and his hands begin to sweat anew. He rummages through his bag. “Yeah, hold on. One sec.”

 

With a single hand, Eddie peels off the layers of clothing from the creature’s glass home before he hoists them onto the counter for Chelsea to see. He deliberately places them in front of her screen to obstruct the view of any nosy third parties in the waiting room. She drops her pen onto the counter as she stares at the creature.

 

“... What is this?”

 

Eddie rubs his neck with feigned nonchalance. “That’s, um, Murder Pudding. Yup.”

 

She leans in closer then backs away, understanding even less than before. “Isn’t this, like, Worcestershire sauce or something?”

 

“Ha… ha…” he laughs awkwardly. “Nope! Murder Pudding is a living creature. Or at least they _were_ still alive when I last checked.”

 

“This, uh, doesn’t look alive.”

 

She taps her pen against the glass a few times. As if finally awoken from their slumber, the creature’s eyes flicker to life to glare at the culprit who disturbs them from their rest. Eddie sees her eyes widen with horror and her lower jaw twitch, preparing to scream -- he reaches over to clap a perspiring palm over her open mouth before she does so.

 

“H-hey! Ssshh-sshhh -- i-it’s okay _oh my god please don’t scream --_ ”

 

Her eyes dart back and forth between Eddie, a mentally unsound-looking man with dark bags under his eyes and a moist hand over her face, and the creature, watching her interact with their owner with an unremitting hostility.

 

A pause.

 

Eddie retracts his hand when it’s apparently she won’t be screaming. She still backs away with horror.

 

She hisses, “what the hell is this!”

 

“Hey, hey!” He glances to the side, noting the curious eyes that have turned to watch the conversation. Eddie squares his shoulders to obfuscate the view and speaks in hushed tones. “Maybe, uh, use your inside voice? _Please?_ ”

 

She whispers at the ever-so quiet volume of a shout. “Th-that's not a cat!”

 

“I mean--? Sometimes they can be hot and cold like a cat?”

 

“How am I supposed to enter this into the system!?”

 

“Y'know, slime! _Slime._ Just throw that into the species field!”

 

“That’s not an option in the drop-down menu! And, ah, what about this part scribbled out? Maybe you should be throwing this at a, I don't know, marine biologist? Or into a fire?!”

 

“Hey, _hey!_ That’s needlessly gruesome. Not cool.”

 

She rubs her temples in disbelief. “Okay, but! What do you want me to do with this?”

 

Desperation is not a good look on Eddie.

 

Still, in an act of duress, he brings his palms together and leans in close to the receptionist with the most pitiful expression he can twist his face into. “I’m begging you to please… please let my buddy here see the vet.”

 

“Chelsea,” interrupts a male voice from behind, “is everything okay?”

 

Eddie turns to meet the voice of the third party, belonging to a dark-skinned man in scrubs.

 

“Doctor Reddy! Everything’s fine, just uh… trying to work out some logistics with your new… client?” She points to the creature in the jar, which has now returned to their resting state with their eyespots having submerged back to the blackness of their flesh.

 

Dr. Reddy eyes the jar with uncertainty. “What is that?”

 

Eddie pushes forth, feeling his opportunity on the cusp of slipping past his fingers. He gestures at his naked wrist, immediately regretting the fact that he is not currently wearing a watch. “Hey, it’s 3:45. That’s our appointment time, right?”

 

All three of them pause, exchanging looks of apprehension that seem to bring forth no answers. Eddie plays his card with the most lamentable look he can muster. Chelsea keeps shrugging as a weak substitute for the words that aren’t able to find their way to her mouth. Eventually, Dr. Reddy sighs and receives the clipboard from Chelsea's hand.

 

“... Yeah. Yeah, okay. C’mon, follow me, sir.”

 

“ _Oh thank god.”_

 

Eddie feels his knees going weak as he follows.

 

Inside the room and behind closed doors, Eddie places the jar housing the creature onto the examination bench. Silently, the vet picks up the jar in his own hands, twisting it curiously before his eyes. The creature simply ripples with the flow of gravity with each turn, unchanging from their tired, liquid form.

 

“Well, that’s new,” he remarks as he places it back onto the table.

 

“Mm hm.”

 

Eddie worries at his lower lip as he watches the vet untwist the jar to pour the creature out onto a blue, plastic pan. The creature wobbles placidly in the tray as if still asleep, seemingly unaware of their change in surroundings. He then takes a probe and starts to gently palpate their body, testing the give and pull of their soma’s elasticity and trying to identify any organs. The creature barely even stirs when the vet submerges his probe into their body, as their aqueous form simply flows around the instrument.

 

It’s not until they feel a single gloved finger poke into their flesh when they manifest their classic lunette eyes.

 

“Woah!”

 

Dr. Reddy quickly retracts his finger when the creature hisses weakly at the intrusion. Their body pulses with their kaleidoscopic alarm-pattern, sprouting needle-thin appendages in all directions like an explosive hedgehog. In his place, Eddie steps forth and cups his hands around the creature in a way that avoids their quills, speaking to them in a quiet, soothing voice.

 

“Hey, shhh. Murder pudding, dear. No need to be so rude. This nice man is just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

 

The soft voice is enough calm the creature. They eventually retract their defensive limbs and relax back into a gentle, squid-ink loaf.

 

“Murder--?”

 

“I-it’s a working title! Don’t worry about it.”

 

Dr. Reddy coughs into his elbow in admission of his futility, then leans his hip against the examination table.

 

“Well, mister --” he picks up the clipboard, in search of his name, “-- Mister Eddie Brock. I’m afraid I can’t help you with this… thing.” He gestures at the creature in a way that Eddie’s skin fire up defensively. “I have no idea what this is.”

 

“I mean, they’re not human--” starts Eddie.

 

“Mm hm.”

 

“-- Or else I would have brought them to a hospital, y’know? A vet seemed like the only other choice. So how can you, a vet, not know how to treat this obviously not-human creature?”

 

The vet inhales sharply and closes his eyes. “Mm. Okay, Mister Brock. Answer me this: birds. Cats. Dogs. Fish. You know what they all have in common?”

 

“What?”

 

“Vertebrae. Organs. Blood. A working respiratory system. But this thing? I don’t see any of that, and I’ve wiggled my probe around it real thoroughly too. There’s no resistance to even suggest any organs inside. No skeleton or musculature. Even it’s eyes are unlike any ocular system I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been a vet for, what? Over 10 years, maybe? So regardless of how badly I want to help you, this is just outside of my field of expertise.” He pauses. “And frankly, also a waste of my time. You’ve seen how many people are out there yourself. Lots of people with lots of sick animals today.”

 

“But you brought me in here. You accepted my appointment time!”

 

The vet rolls his eyes. “Oh, please! I brought you in here because you were scaring our staff.”

 

“But, but... you’re curious too!”

 

Eddie crosses his arms across his chest defiantly, feeling for the crack along Dr. Reddy’s resolve. The vet rubs his chin and hesitates, quietly considering this notion.

 

“You’re curious about this… creature, too,” Eddie repeats. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have agreed to see them.”

 

“Hm.”

 

It's the lack of sleep and worry at his ailing pal that makes each passing second feel so much more dramatic than the last. Dr. Reddy eventually sighs again to break the silence.

 

“Okay! Fine. I make no guarantees on any healing because I'm not a miracle worker. But I can take a sample and examine it under a microscope, if that'll help.”

 

“Yes!”

 

Dr. Reddy grabs a disposable pipette and aims it toward the creature's flesh. As soon as the pipette penetrates their body, they hiss wildly and wrap a tendril around the instrument, forcefully wringing it out of the vet's hand. The creature releases the instrument back at the offender, forcing Dr. Reddy to duck just before it hits his face.

 

“Hey!” Eddie admonishes. “Come on! Be nice, sweetheart. You’re embarrassing us.”

 

Recognizing the sharpness of his tone, the creature immediately retracts their protrusions and sulks on the pan. Eddie extends his palm toward them, in a display that the creature immediately recognizes. In response, they slowly sequester some of their mass into a simulated hand and proceeds to gently nestles their’s into Eddie’s own. He runs his thumb gently across their surface before presenting the creature's hand to the vet.

 

Dr. Reddy wheezes with bafflement. “That's…!” He closes his mouth dumbly when he fails to find the right words.

 

The creature watches as the vet brings a new pipette to their outstretched limb and glances at Eddie for reassurance, rippling uncomfortable as the instrument draws near...

 

“It's okay,” he mutters quietly. He brings his free hand to stroke the creature’s main body in a practised way, allowing the creature to relax again.

 

Carefully, the vet takes a small sample from the back of the creature's hand and deposits the wriggling droplet onto a glass slide to be sandwiched under a cover slip. Eddie waits anxiously as Dr. Reddy turns to examine the sample under a simple microscope. He switches between the different objective lenses, frowning as he struggles to obtain a focused image.

 

“Uh. You doin’ okay, doc?”

 

“No,” Dr. Reddy admits. “I can't see a damn thing.” He turns the dials a few more times, maxing out each dial in both directions without gaining a clearer picture. “The slide is illuminated from below, but none of it penetrates through the droplet I took. All I see is black.”

 

“Hm. What if you try shining a light from above?”

 

The vet pauses. “Well I _suppose_ that's an option, though there's a limit on what can be done with a light microscope.”

 

With no other tools available, Dr. Reddy positions a small table lamp next to the microscope and points the bulb toward the stage. He fiddles with the focus dials again, trying each knob in both directions until finally, he stops.

 

“This is incredible!”

 

Eddie chokes. “You’re finally able to see something?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“So y-you've figured things out?”

 

“Not at all!”

 

He deflates. Dr. Reddy finally tears his eye away from the microscope to turn to Eddie. “Come here and take a look yourself! Tell me what you see.”

 

Eddie hesitantly releases the creature’s hand and moves toward the other end of the examination bench to share the microscope. Unsure of what to expect, he squints at the eyepiece until his vision focuses on the otherworldly display:

 

 

 

“... Woah. What am I looking at?”

 

“That’s the question of the day, isn’t it?” The vet peels off his gloves and rubs his chin in speculation of the fascinating visual. “See, I can't even see cells on this slide. Either this creature is acellular, or the cells are so small that it's beyond the range of this microscope's magnification, which would suggest of a bacterial colony because of how slimy and mucoid they feel. But I've never heard of any bacterial colony _like this_ , and definitely not one that would be considered sentient _._ And the moving structures themselves! They almost look… crystalline? But to be able to shape and reshape itself, over and over again at that speed... it’s as alien as it gets.”

 

Eddie’s head reels. “I… I don't know what that means.”

 

“Me neither! But I'm gonna need to take a bigger sample.”

 

Eddie trips over his words. “A--a _what?_ ”

 

“A bigger sample!”

 

“Uh--”

 

“I have a colleague that has access to an electron microscope. We can send her a chunk and get a closer picture.”

 

“A-a chunk?”

 

“Or, or, I can take the creature and send them to our associates at Life Laboratories for some chemistry and microbiology panels--”

 

“Well--”

 

“We’ll have to run some assays of course, but, uh. Oh! Or we might just have to take them in altogether for more experimentation-- ”

 

“Wait..”

 

“You might not get it back, but--”

 

“No!”

 

Before he even realizes it, Eddie has his back toward the creature, squaring his shoulders to create a defensive barrier that separates them from the vet. Every single hair on his body is on high alert, tingling and raised, ready for flight.

 

Eddie freezes up as he watches the other man silently. Dr. Reddy blinks at him, dumbstruck. “I apologize. I’m getting ahead of myself here. I’m just trying to help, Mr. Brock.”

 

“No,” Eddie mutters again.

 

The vet presses on. “But I feel like there’s so many things that can be learned about this… thing.”

 

He’s not sure what he’s doing but he’s driven by a selfish fear that courses through his body, with no compromise that can possibly sway him. "You can’t have a bigger sample. You can’t just subject them to experimentation when you can’t even promise to make them better. You don’t -- you don’t even know what they are to begin with!” His voice cracks. “You can’t take them away from me. You… you just can’t.”

 

There must be a goddamn draft in the room, because Eddie’s face feels stupidly hot compared to the rest of his body. He draws his lips into a thin line, trying and failing to maintain some semblance of authority when it’s so thinly veiled and barely enough mask to the violent terror beneath. When the vet makes no attempt to respond, Eddie turns back to the creature to discover that they’ve resumed their hibernation, a quiet sea of black settling calmly into the base of the pan. He gently tips the creature back into the jar, trying his best not to awaken them from their much needed slumber, then reseals them into their home.

 

“The slide,” says Eddie, holding out his hand. Dr. Reddy hesitates, but eventually moves to uncuff the slide from the stage clips before slowly handing it to him. Eddie carefully places the piece of glass into the pocket of his jacket and runs.

 

He ignores the voices of the reception as he escapes from the clinic, refusing to look back as he starts up his bike.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not even a long trip, but he’s exhausted by the time he returns to the emptiness of his derelict apartment. As soon as the door shuts behind him, he immediately retrieves the creature from his bag and places them onto his dining table. There’s barely any reaction as their jar bounces off the wooden surface. Eddie grimaces, then pulls the glass slide from his pocket and carefully removes the coverslip. The miniscule sample of ink coalesces back into a small droplet, but it no longer has the pulsing activity from before…

 

Which strikes him as a matter of great concern, because in all the times that he has seen their aqueous body bleb apart, each fragment has the tendency to return to their main body, usually designated as the largest fragment of their system. But even as Eddie dangles the slide above the creature’s body, there’s no activity. No shuddering of their surface as it wavers like ferrofluid pulled to a magnet. It’s not until Eddie brings the droplet into direct contact when it finally gets absorbed into their main body.

 

But still, they barely stir.

 

By now, the sun shines brightly outside, teasing with prophecies of good omens, but he’s still cold inside. So cold.

 

There’s hot fluid collecting at the corners of his eyes again. He blinks back stubbornly, trying to feign some sort of control over his emotions, but… there’s no user guide. No conveniently timed mascot to walk him through the tutorial for taking care of a sentient slime. Nor any diagnostic manual of any sort to elucidate the problem either.

 

And it scares him.

 

As much as it scares him to even realize how fondly he has come to associate with this mystifying, pitch-like creature, and the thought of losing them, along with every other severed connection he’s ever had in his life, shakes him to his core. He carefully dips the tips of his fingers into their surface again. When that isn’t enough to draw them into manifesting their eyes, his hands begin to tremble.

 

“Please… what else can I do?”

 

He knows he’s being over-dramatic and solipsistic, but… given his spotty track record, it's hard not for him to believe he’s cursed with the anti-Midas touch, where everything he touches inevitably turns to shit. But even so, it’s not enough to hold him back when he scoops the being into his hands, cradling the creature’s body like the most precious thing in the world.

 

His voice is barely audible as a repressed whimper shakes his chest. “God dammit. P-please tell me what to do. Please. I’ll do anything!” He squeezes his eyes shut.

 

It’s not until the first hot tear hits their body when their lunette eyes finally swirl to meet him.

 

With his heart full of anguish, he holds them to his chest. It’s not the first time he’s cried before the creature, and now there’s no shortage of tears that roll down his cheeks and off his chin to strike against their body. The creature blinks blearily at their preferred host, not understanding why he is showering them with tiny droplets of brine and breathing so irregularly again, similar to his previous behaviour in the bath.

 

Still, despite their fatigue, they are emboldened by both their desperation and by the closeness to which he willingly keeps them, and they slowly stretch their body to align their eyes with his.

 

Eddie’s eyes snap open when he feels a tendril stroking his cheek. The creature is stretched before him, gazing at him lovingly in their own alien way.

 

“... Sweetheart?”

 

The creature hisses at him.

 

“Uh?”

 

He sniffles and blinks a few times. He recalls this as the creature’s simulacrum of “yes”, however…

 

“Ssss,” the creature repeats.

 

_But “yes” what?_

 

_Yes?_

 

Finally, _finally,_ he registers the slight lilt in their rudimentary vocalisation, a subtle elevation in their tone.

 

“Oh!”

 

 _Yes_ isn’t the answer. _Yes_ is a question.

 

They’re asking for permission.

 

He has no idea what he’s agreeing to, but the answer comes rushing out unabated, caught in the inexorable undertow of his desperation.

 

“Yes!”

 

The creature inches closer. “Ssss?”

 

“Yes!”

 

And closer. “ _Sssss?!”_

 

“Yes! Yes, yes, _ye-- gurgh.”_

 

There’s no hesitation this time as the creature surges forth, tongue first, into Eddie’s open mouth.

 

He chokes.

 

It’s the worst French-kiss Eddie has ever experienced in his life, even surpassing that one time he jokingly stuck his tongue out at one of his exe’s dog while they simultaneously tried to lick his face and ended up licking his tongue instead. It's even worse than that time his ephemeral partner vomited into his mouth mid-smooch on New Year's Eve. But no, this surpasses that in every possible aspect of unpleasantness, unlocking all new echelons of vulgarity because there’s just so much slobber and tongue and tongue and _more tongue,_ with the faint but ever prevalent taste of raw meat and crunchy egg shells.

 

“Mmmph! Mmrrph!”

 

And gods, the teeth! So many of them, and so sharp! This is the most uncomfortable and teethy kiss he has ever experienced and his gag reflex is right on the cusp of kicking in, and--

 

He tries! Unsuccessfully, to pull the creature away, but their body just stretches like liquorice taffy with the core of their being centered on his lips, focused on drowning him in a writhing mass of Lovecraftian tendrils that fills his nostrils, crawls along his neck and cheeks, obscuring his vision in wriggling darkness--

 

“--!!”

 

There’s just so much more surface area than he ever expected from such a seemingly diminutive creature, as they cover his face and wrap their tendrils tightly around his neck. More and more limbs appear to run their blackness through each follicle of his hair. Their flesh flows through his like a series of tiny Lichtenberg figures, sending shock waves of sharp, foreign energy that passes through his body in waves. They breach each pore with their microscopic extensions, fill each gap between his dermal layers, stretched so infinitesimally thin and yet ever encompassing that it becomes impossible to tell where his skin ends and their body begins.

  
He _breathes_ in the creature as he blacks out.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murder pie a la mode!  
>   
> Also, the gif used in this chapter was derived from the one found [here](http://szajmon.tumblr.com/post/62710925675). Unfortunately, I am unable to identify the original artist who made this gif, so if anyone recognizes this gif, please let me know so I can credit properly!


	9. The Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y-yikes, I haven't updated this since.... last year! Oops. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, thank you to [candleaight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmesammie/pseuds/candleaight) and [Luna Leaf](https://twitter.com/cin_nic) for helping me beta and encouraging me despite being so slow to update.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Trigger warning for this chapter: emetophobia/ vomiting.** (I mean Eddie throws up in the movie, but just in case anyone is super uncomfortable with it.) Stop reading when you see mention of a "brownie", and CTRL+F for "pizza" to skip ahead.

 

 

**_Eddie…_ **

 

_Augh..._

 

**_Eddie..._ **

 

In his half-asleep dream state, Eddie feels as if he's eaten the most undercooked turkey of his life. So tasteless, so under-marinated, so cold and chewy with that resistant gooeyness that raw meat tends to have. He chews and chews and the squishy meatiness just billows around and between his teeth like the bounciest play-dough he never got to eat as a child.

 

**_Eddie…_ **

 

And god, that voice is persistent, isn't it? Eddie mentally swats at the voice buzzing next to his figment ears. He spends way too long trying to figure out how to describe the voice in a way that holds familiarity to him. He eventually pins that deep, gravelly voice as the Cookie Monster's distant cousin, the one that no one likes to talk about, from some backwater part of the UK after having smoked a minimum of 1 pack of cigarettes per day until there's almost nothing resembling vocal chords left in his throat. Or something? Either way, he's a bit pleased with himself on this new categorization, though as to why this brings him any sort of satisfaction alludes him.

 

“Shut up, cookie dick,” he snickers. The voice quiets for a moment, enough for Eddie to resume his gnawing on the weird meat-flavoured chewing gum until he is violently tossed from his dreamscape with a snap.

 

**_EDDIE!_ **

 

“Glugh--? Oh.”

 

Eddie finds himself face-first in a puddle of his own drool, thick and wet having solidified against the coldness of his floors. Which is odd, because even at the crux of his most melancholy days, he has never once actually slept on the floor. He’s a self-sabotaging lummox most of the time but even so, his style of moping is more along the lines of self-preservation; he prefers his mopery to include cozying himself up under a thick blanket as he cries himself to sleep, thanks.

 

As he moves to push himself off the floor, his palm slips against his drool (really, a testament in itself for how much drool there exists based on the diameter alone) and his head bounces, smack dab into the slobber puddle again.

 

“Oh, _fuck me,_ ” he groans.

 

That stomach-distended feeling after having eaten an unnecessarily large meal is completely gone too, and a creaking ache throughout his entire body has carefully slid into its place instead. With unsteady arms, he finally manages to elevate his body from the floor, panting as he positions his back against a wall. There's a weakness that seems to grip at every fiber of his being, but it's not the same kind of emaciation he's experienced before -- it's almost as if his meagre 15 gallon fuel tank was suddenly replaced with an empty 30 gallon reservoir overnight, so it's no wonder he's feeling so drained. He flexes his trembling muscles and twists his wrists before his eyes, trying to restore some life into his aching limbs, wondering why the life force from his body has been so thoroughly depleted.

 

At the corner of his eyes, he notices the jar, tipped onto its side and empty. He quickly snatches the glass enclosure and his heart fills with dread.

 

“...P-pudding?”

 

_Where could they be?_

 

The ache travels along his body like grimy fingers of rust, but he still moves to begin his frantic search, tearing apart his apartment in the process. Couch cushions are thrown to the ground, and he checks each drawer, each compartment of his fridge, each creaking cabinet -- nothing. The creature’s sinuous body is nowhere to be seen and Eddie's feeling the burn of panic and loss welling up in his chest.

 

“Are you there?”

 

Silence.

 

_...Why?_

 

The cankerous memories of an extremely unpleasant kiss are pervasive and he gags again, reflexively. Why are these the last memories that he's unfortunate enough to recall before he blacked out? Neuroticism is at an all-time high and he's not in the right state of mind to deal with this, because thoughts of abandonment are the the only ones that keep rushing to his head.

 

Eddie’s lower lip tremble as a profound sadness settles within. It's a bit like being that child that nurses an injured bird back to health before they inevitably fly away. With his companion nowhere to be found, he's rewarded with a bittersweet ending that he never wanted: the kind that parents will always deign to tell their children that “it’s for the best” as their erstwhile animal friend darts back into the wilderness; the kind of closure that one smiles and pretends to be happy about, even as it leaves one wanting more.

 

“God dammit,” he whispers.

 

Still, his moment of bereavement is short-lived when his phone rattles against his leg, demanding his attention. Of course, the only person that has the gall to call him on his day off is Diane. He readies himself mentally, then begrudgingly answers.

 

“Hey Diane.”

 

“Eddie, what the fuck. Where are you?”

 

“It's my day off, Diane.”

 

She scoffs with outrage into the mouthpiece. “No, it's not! That was yesterday!”

 

“... Wait, what?” Eddie instinctively checks his naked wrists and instantly feels stupid when he sees that it’s flesh-o’clock.

 

“It's 10 AM! You missed our team meeting at 9! I called you, like, 5 times already!”

 

Eddie peels his phone from his face to check the time. His battery is almost completely drained, and Diane’s statement of the time is correct. The notifications indicate 9 missed calls and 4 texts from a contact he has listed as “Wench”.

 

“Oh… shit.” Eddie rubs his temples, trying and failing to piece his haphazardous memories together. “I don’t… I don’t know how that happened? I can’t remember last night...”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. How hard did you party yesterday?”

 

“What? No? As far as I know, I never left my apartment.”

 

“Son, I know it’s kind of lame to bring your mom out for drinks, but invite me next time, ‘kay?”

 

He scoffs. “I didn’t realize we were still at that point in our relationship where I still need parental supervision at my ragers.”

 

“Family-oriented events! All-ages only!”

 

“Let me guess: non-alcoholic beer?”

 

“You got it, kiddo. And remember: all hands must remain above the waist!”

 

“Wow,” he chuckles with disbelief. “No, seriously. I didn’t leave my house at all. I just… woke up on my floor for some reason.”

 

She pauses. “... Uh. Right. Well, are you able to still come in today? ‘Cause we should talk in person.”

 

“I guess so. Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

 

“Okay. Well, if you can get your shit together in an hour or so, that would be abso-fucking-lutely fantastic.”

 

“Mm. See you soon.”

 

His stomach coils emphatically as the call ends. Eddie winces, feeling the hollowness beckon within his body with each turn of his heel, but he ignores it as he readies himself for the events of his day. Out of habit, he picks up the empty jar again, and is suddenly overwhelmed with uncertainty. He debates with himself as to whether he should still bring the empty container with him since the creature’s presence has been his constant companion, always within arms-reach for what feels far longer than what it actually is.

 

The absurdity of his delusions finally shake him from his thoughts -- _it’s an empty jar, god dammit._

 

_They’re gone._

 

In a sudden moment that eclipses his sadness with anger, Eddie pushes open one of the windows of his apartment and shouts as thrusts the jar, with all his might, into the empty alley. He stands there after the glass shatters in the distance, breathless and gripping his fist until his knuckles turn white, finally able to recognize the feeling clenched so tightly within his chest as betrayal.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Biking on an empty stomach is a god-awful idea. Hell, doing anything on an empty stomach is an awful idea, but Eddie’s the type of person who normally takes bad ideas and lays with them on the ground while the consequences of his actions slowly steamroll over his flaccid body. As he putters through the streets, he’s given a split second to decide whether to take a left toward that Chinese-herbal scented bodega in search for a cheap meal. He makes that decision a second too late, and he drives past his only chance at a bite and a quip with Ms. Chen.

 

_Dammit._

 

By the time he arrives at his workplace, his stomach is still unable to stop rumbling to the tune of the bustling streets, and he damn near falls off his bike as he dismounts.

 

The trip up to the seventh floor is a struggle unto itself, and Eddie won't soon forget the discomfort of forcing his body to curl in on itself, ignoring the uncomfortable bowel sounds that disrupts what would normally be a quiet event as he, and other elevator passengers, make their way toward their designated floors. When he finally reaches the office, his other coworkers shoot him either sly looks of disapproval or indifference -- Eddie hasn't really been working here long enough to establish bonds beyond acquaintances, but being completely absent for the meeting is still what one would consider to be a tad bit unprofessional. He ignores these looks pointedly and b-lines for Diane's office, far too spent to really care either way.

 

“Mm, yeah, I'll call you back, love. Okay, bye bye.”

 

Diane ends her call as Eddie approaches the door and she raises her brows at his appearance.

 

“It's not that I'm really inclined to go back to those primitive times, but I do miss the way the early cell phones could hang up just by closing them, n’aw mean? Felt really confident to just snap the phone shut, as if you were saying ‘bye, bitch’ while doing it. Anyway, Eddie, what the fuck happened to you? You look like you got hit by the ugly bus this morning.”

 

“Thanks.” Eddie's lower eyelid twitches as he takes the seat across from her desk. “Well, like I said… I... I woke up on the floor this morning.”

 

“... Mm hm.” She studies his face for a moment, then exhales. “So how was your date last night?”

 

Eddie blinks. “My what?”

 

“Your date! Because I just assumed 'taking a friend to a hospital’ was actually supposed to mean you’re going on a date or something.”

 

“I can guarantee you that it wasn't a date.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, really. It was as far removed from a date as possible.”

 

“Oh, yeah? But did you make out at least?”

 

He knows she’s just being facetious, but this actually makes Eddie pause for a second as he considers his answer. “If playing violent tonsil-hockey with a xenomorph is what you consider to be kissing, then maybe…”

 

“Haha, what?”

 

He waves his hand dismissively. “Nothing. Uh, never mind. Just, um, debrief me on the shit that I missed today.”

 

She rolls her eyes in mock annoyance and sighs again.

 

“Well, alright. First off, do you ever use the staff room?”

 

“Nope. I own like, maybe 2 pieces of tupperware, tops. Probably missing the lids.”

 

“Right. Anyway, for some reason this was a huge point of contention in this meeting, especially for Nadia who’s been up to my tits about some mysterious offender who keeps using the microwave without the cover so shit gets everywhere...”

 

Eddie loses focus.

 

It’s difficult to keep focus as Diane starts to rambling about every inane problem that occurs at Star Chronicles, especially since half of what she goes on about is completely irrelevant to Eddie’s assignments. Eddie’s not exactly the most patient person but he does what he can do to remain in her good graces, and thankfully, Diane is completely aware of her problematic loquacity so she’s content with being given the chance to ramble even if the recipient is obviously not listening -- so long as the recipient at least responds to the important and relevant bits of her spiel. And, perhaps, being a verbal outlet at least gives Eddie a small sense of purpose, no matter how infantile it may seem.

 

He nods along absentmindedly as his mind drifts back to the pangs of emptiness in his chest incited by his missing companion. His non-committal gestures are enough to keep Diane going, but as his stomach begins to beckon for his attention again, he regrets foregoing his cup of Joe this morning. Eddie tries his hardest to avoid looking at the time.

 

“... and then can you believe his agent actually had the nerve to ask me for a fuckin’ date afterward? As if publishing your half-assed writing is an actual, honest to god bargaining chip in this situation. I told my girlfriend about it and she laughed. Said: ‘hey, at least it’s a free meal,’ so I guess she doesn’t care if I go through with it, especially since he doesn’t know I’m not actually available. A girl’s gotta eat anyway, right? Anyway, dinner means food, Eddie. Dinner sounds good. Fill us with food, Eddie. Dinner is good **because we are so hungry, Eddie. Feed us, Eddie, we NEED FOOD!** ”

 

“Woah!”

 

Eddie perks up at the moment his digestive system grinds in on itself, a hollow machine churning nothing but emptiness. He catches Diane staring at him with a confused horror in her expression.

 

His jaw drops. “Woah," he repeats. "Did you just… do something weird with your voice?”

 

“What?”

 

Eddie looks around the room, suddenly uncomfortably aware of an unseen third party in the room. Diane stares at him, blissfully unaware with her confusion written in her eyes.

 

“Nothing,” he blurts.

 

His head spins. He’s certainly out of his goddamn mind. Eddie must have hemorrhaged his brain when he smashed it against the floor this morning. Or maybe it was the night prior, since his memories have since then been ravaged into oblivion. It’s the only explanation that comes to mind.

 

 **_No brain injuries,_ ** the voice pointedly interjects, as if to deny him that slight footing on any rational ground.

 

And a second later, he agrees - there’s no pain or weird sensations other than a throaty, demanding voice in his head and a hunger so unrestrained that it almost makes those gross, low-fat fibre bars on Diane’s desk look appetizing. And he knows for a fact that the artistic packaging is the sole illusionist that tricks everyone into buying them, because every health-nut is lying through gritted teeth when they say “it’s so good!” even as they try to unclog the psyllium from the gaps between said teeth. But now, this reckless hunger has him fooled into thinking they might not be as awful as he originally believed, even though he’s had one before, and something compels him to reach out and take one.

 

“Eddie?”

 

“Gurk -- yeah?”

 

“Christ, what's wrong with you?”

 

It’s an awkward display that Eddie puts on before Diane, half-sobbing, half-sweating, and one-hundred percent disastrous as he essentially inhales the bar without even tasting it. **_It’s so bad, tastes so bad,_ ** the spectral voice agrees, but his arm is acting on its own volition to reach out and grab another one, because that single bar did absolutely fuck-all to sate this newly awakened appetite.

 

Just as Eddie is about to grab the remaining bar, Diane quickly snatches it out of his reach. “Dude, what the fuck? When’s the last time you had a proper meal? You look like one of those starving children they put on those World Vision ads to goad people into sponsoring one.”

 

“F-food?”

 

Apparently, hypoglycemia is a strange beast that nullifies any ability of his to articulate his thoughts. Again, his body moves on its own as he lunges forth to grab the bar from Diane, who moves to slap his hand away with a surprisingly trained reflex.

 

“Fuck off! These bars are expensive! God -- if you wanted food so badly, you could have just asked.”

 

Diane pulls out her lunch bag from behind her desk and takes her time to rummage through the meal she has packed. Eddie just continues to sweat in his seat and tap his foot impatiently, until --

 

His stomach chirps like a baby bird screaming at its mother for food, and he reaches across the desk to snatch the entire bag from her hands.

 

“Hey!”

 

“I’m sorry,” he slurs half-heartedly, but it holds no weight in convincing him to return it. Small sounds of exasperation come from Diane as Eddie shuffles through the mixture -- quinoa salad? **_No._ ** An apple? **_No._** Yogurt? **_No._ **

 

**_Need something better!_ **

 

He uncovers the holy grail within the mix: a brownie.

 

**_Perfect!_ **

 

“NOO!”

 

It’s too late, because Eddie has transformed himself into something akin to a deep-sea bottom feeder, the kind of creature that creates a perpetual vacuum as it inhales any free-floating nutritional particles without any discrimination between edible and non-edible. He completely ignores the cellophane that wraps itself partially around the brownie as it gets shoved into his mouth as a single unit, barely gracing his teeth while Diane shrieks in the backdrop.

 

“Eddie! What the fuck, what the fuck! That’s not a regular brownie!”

 

“Ish noff?”

 

“Dude! I was saving that to de-stress after work! Oh my god, that shit is super strong!”

 

“Graaahgh--!”

 

Eddie grabs a nearby waste bin and forces his head between his knees. He hasn't had any experimental edibles since his college days, and even then it was largely a social catalyst rather than habitual. And as of this current moment, he’s consumed far too much to completely fuck up someone who hasn’t eaten anything since the morning prior.

 

**_What are you doing?_ **

 

The internal voice is gravelly and frantic. Eddie ignores it and continues trying to eject his insides.

 

**_That is our food, Eddie! Why are you trying to get rid of it?!_ **

 

“That’s not food,” he finally wheezes between the forced contractions. He dry-heaves into the waste bin and ends up only spitting saliva.

 

**_It’s chocolate, Eddie! Food!_ **

 

“Why would I eat the one thing that will make me even hungrier later?!”

 

**_Wait, WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY “HUNGRIER” --_ **

 

Eddie throws a finger onto the back of his throat and presses down hard. Normally he would be sputtering vomitus over his fingers by now, but there's something wrong with him, something wrong with his _body;_ it's an otherworldly force gripping his esophagus tight, disabling his ability to eject as he would normally be able to.

 

“Out!” Diane is screaming while slapping his arm. It's done so without any intention to truly cause pain, but enough force to emphasize her livid displeasure. “Get the fuck out of my office and go throw-up somewhere else!”

 

A train of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”’s is all he manages to warble as he darts from her office, avoiding the bewildered looks of the other staff at Star Chronicles. There’s just so much shame bubbling forth into the redness on his cheeks and the heat tearing at the corner of his eyes, so he skips the elevators and throws his body into the secluded stairwell of the building instead. He flies through the stairwell, barely registering his feet as it hits each step, and bursts out into the back alley of the building. Eddie braces his arm against the wall as he tries, again, to push the contents of his stomach onto the pavement, but there’s a foreign film obstructing the back of his throat that prevents him from doing so.

 

“Why can’t I throw up?”

 

**_It was food, Eddie!_ **

 

“No! You--! You, whoever you are, whoever you are in my head? That’s not fucking food! I need to throw up or else I’m going to start dying in about an hour!”

 

**_DYING?! It was poison?_ **

 

A strange trickle of self-preservation from this voice makes its way to Eddie’s conscious, and he jumps on their hesitation. “Kind of, yes! Give me 60 minutes before I start screaming like a psycho, and then I’m going to fucking-- _blarrgh--!_ ”

 

Without warning Eddie shreds the contents of his stomach onto the wall - everything pushes their way out, just short of bile. Bits of brownie splatter onto his hoodie, while the rest of it hits the narrow space between his shoes. It’s not an ideal trade off, but at least there’s some marginal relief knowing that he’s not going to be flying to the fucking moon later. Eddie wipes off the last dredges of his vomit onto the back of his hand before he picks off the intact piece of cellophane from his shoe.

 

**_I saved us, Eddie! No more poison._ **

 

“What the fuck,” he wheezes.

 

**_Still need a proper meal, though. Your organs are tasty, but we love you enough to not sample._ **

 

“WHAT! No! Fuck, we’re getting pizza, alright? Holy fuck!”

 

The internal voice doesn’t seem totally cognizant of what “pizza” entails, but there’s a contented hum that slithers its way into Eddie’s brain as he begins to walk. He wears his hood to partially obscure his face and he slouches, blending into obscurity with the rest of the homeless denizens of the city.

 

“So what is this,” he mumbles to himself. “Is this schizophrenia?”

 

 ** _No,_** the voice replies with amusement.

 

“Is it still considered schizophrenia if I’m aware of it?”

 

**_You do not have schizophrenia._ **

 

“Oh wow, even better! It’s possession. So much for all those Sunday services and getting baptized as a kid.” He laughs mirthlessly at his own joke.

 

The voice pauses as they peruse through his childhood memories. It’s uncomfortable for Eddie to be aware of that nebulous sensation, winding their way around his headspace and across the inner fossas of his cranium.

 

 **_You use humor as a coping mechanism,_ ** the voice concludes.

 

Eddie’s lower eyelid twitches. “Begone, demon! If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed, I’d rather not count on the ghost haunting my head for that.”

 

 **_We are not a ghost,_ ** they reply petulantly, **_but we are in your head._ **

 

But there’s a semblance of hurt in their figment voice, and Eddie feels their emotions splayed in tandem against his. He recognizes that these feelings are not of his own, but the fight in his body deflates slightly regardless. It’s difficult to maintain that aggression when the perpetrator themself is so blatant in their grief.

 

Eddie shivers.

 

“... Let’s talk over food, okay?”

 

At least that’s something they can both agree on.

 

Eddie stops when he notices that his legs have taken him to a greasy pizza joint. Aside from one employee, there seems to be no other patrons present. He steps inside and is welcomed by a frightened looking teenager.

 

“Hello! Er, w-what can I get you?”

 

Eddie raises his brow and watches her sweat under his gaze. He turns to mull over the pies illuminated behind the glass and purses his lips, then he points at the most appetizing selection.

 

“That one, please.”

 

“Just one slice, s-sir?”

 

“Nah, I want a whole pizza to myself. Extra large.”

 

“That will take t-twenty minutes! W-will that be okay?”

 

Eddie knows, with an absolute austere certainty, that he’s not going to be able to last 20 minutes in a room full of enticing aromas without breaking anything and everything and screaming at this teenager at her first part-time job.

 

“You know what? Give me a slice of each.”

 

“O-okay, please wait!”

 

The teenager trembles as she runs to the back to grab a box, nearly face-planting in the process. Eddie furrows his brows in confusion until he sees his image in a reflective surface, recalling the fact that he currently looks like an emaciated hobo with bits of up-chuck on his shirt. He places a twenty dollar bill onto the counter and empties all of the change from his wallet into the tip jar, then he turns his face and body away to grant the employee a minute sense of privacy.

 

She returns with a box filled with an assortment of slices and nearly bows as she presents it to him.

 

“H-here you go sir!” Her voice is barely a squeak. “And t-thank you for the tip!”

 

“No prob,” he mumbles as he accepts it. Eddie quickly makes his way to a secluded table and positions himself next to a wall, then finally opens the box to reveal his feast.

 

 ** _Food…_** the voice sighs, and he feels their anticipation coasting along the surface of his skin. Eddie ignores the sensation and debates over which slice to start with. His indecision only serves to irritate the voice even further, which manifests as the sensation intensifying into a frothing dance along his arms, hidden beneath his clothes.

 

“Quit it,” he hisses.

 

He sighs and chooses to compromise by taking each slice and stacking one on top of the other until it becomes an 8-layered slice of savory cake. His jaw stretches impossibly wide (he’s just not going to question it yet) and he sinks his teeth into each layer at the same time. The crust to cheese to marinara to topping ratio is just _so disproportionate,_ and it's obvious that the pizzas lack the freshness advertised, but the greasiness is an absolute delight that checks off everything he needs at the moment. Once he starts eating, that voracious appetite kicks into full throttle and Eddie finishes the entire pizza almost immediately. He’s chagrined to find that he’s still not sated.

 

“Another of slice of each,” he demands.

 

“Y-yes!”

 

This process is repeated, again and again, until Eddie has gorged himself on 3 pizzas worth of food and his wallet is depleted of all physical assets. A lovely satisfaction fills his body as his belly becomes full and distended - all his previous irritation seems to be stamped out once he’s no longer a victim of hangriness. That, and the post-meal insulin rush has his eyelids threatening to drape across his tired eyes, and it doesn’t help at all when his mental perpetrator extends a coddling sensation along his skin and beneath his clothing, similar to that of being spooned when their processes wraps around his arms and across his back.

 

Eddie shakes his head to dispel the drowsiness, especially since a greasy pizza joint isn’t exactly the most ideal location to take a nap.

 

“We still need to talk.”

 

**_Yes._ **

 

“Who are you?”

 

He feels a glow within his chest as the perpetrator builds themself up to this answer, as if they’ve been rehearsing this scenario over and over again for weeks, and the chance at the big reveal finally presents itself.

 

 **_We are Venom,_ ** they reply triumphantly.

  
  
  
  


 

 

“... Who?”

 

The voice deflates, and their despair almost knocks the wind out of Eddie’s chest. He winces as he experiences an awkward combination of both first and secondhand embarrassment, and he immediately feels guilty for nullifying their thunder.

 

**_W-we…_ **

 

They try again.

 

**_We are an extraterrestrial being from beyond the stars that currently takes residence in your body. You were the one who found and nursed us back to health, then almost killed us again, Eddie._ **

 

“Oh my god, Murder Pudding?”

 

**_NO! Do not call us ‘Pudding’!_ **

 

Eddie flinches at their rage. “Okay, okay, not Murder Pudding then. Your name is Venom, you're an alien, a-and... you’re alive?!”

 

**_Yes, alive and inside you._ **

 

“You’re alive! Holy shit, you’re -- you’re alive and…”

 

**_We thrive through our bond to you._ **

 

“Y-you…”

 

**_Yes?_ **

 

It’s slow trickle at first before the overflow of emotions becomes torrential, but Eddie starts to quietly sob, then and there, over the empty pizza box. It’s an awful sight, talking to himself in a corner after eating enough food to feed a small classroom. Meanwhile, a terrified teenager watches him from afar in hopes that he will leave soon and take his eccentricities with him, but one after the other, the tears keep budding to flow across his cheeks and past his chin before it splatters against the cardboard below.

 

**_Eddie? Why are you leaking?_ **

 

“I-I thought you abandoned me, buddy. Thought I’d -- ah, never hear from you again.” He sniffles and wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand. “I-I really missed you.”

 

**_Eddie…_ **

 

A small black tendril oozes from the skin behind his ear into the minute space before his eyes. Eddie snaps his eyes closed out of reflex, but then he feels the tendril gently move to wipe the tears from his cheeks. The slow tenderness of their gesture only serves to overwhelm Eddie anew, and he begins to cry even harder in a suppressed silence. He’s embarrassed by his unabashed reaction, but there’s no hint of judgement from the other party in their shared connection. Another tendril emerges to caress his cheek through his breakdown.

 

**_Please don’t cry, Eddie! Would never leave you._ **

 

“R-really?”

 

**_Really._ **

 

Eddie nods in agreement and a few more tears splatter onto the table. His final sniffle is followed by a resolute sigh, and Eddie dries the last few tears onto the sleeves of his sweater. “I’m fine,” he declares, and the black tendrils slowly sink back into his skin.

 

**_Good._ **

 

He doesn’t understand it. Barely even registers the implications of their actions, nor does he understand this new and tenuous connection, but… there’s something comforting in the way they wrap their sinuous body around his arms and back, and that constant crack that exists in the centre of his chest no longer feels as debilitating as before, as if the rough edges have been sanded down; the perpetual ache less jarring and prominent.

 

A newfound calmness fills him. The creature in his body ripples gently with their shared sensibilities.

 

He and the creature sit in a contented silence, slowly taking in each other’s presence, when he finally notices a quiet voice cutting into the backdrop. Eddie glances over at the counter to look for the sole employee. He doesn’t see her, but he hears her voice as she rapidly whispers to someone on the phone.

 

“... grey hoodie… smells really bad… he’s stopped talking to himself right now… no, I’m too scared to look!”

 

_Fuck._

 

His perception of impending danger is quickly translated to the creature. **_What’s going on?_ **

 

“We’ve gotta go, buddy.”

 

**_Where?_ **

 

“Dunno. Somewhere where we don’t get the cops called on us despite being A PAYING CUSTOMER!” He shouts out the last part as he breaks into a sprint. He hears a quiet yelp from behind as his legs bring him back to the busy streets.

 

**_WE CAN EAT HER INSTEAD?_ **

 

“No! No, we cannot!”

 

Eddie’s out of breath by the time he reaches his motorcycle, and is likewise horrified by the imminent debate on human morality he must soon have with Venom.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Wow I can't stop thinkin' about Nutella
> 
> Speaking of Nutella, you should read [Venom's food blog.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364734/chapters/40860317)


	10. The Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, if you haven't seen this, [Luna Leaf](https://twitter.com/cin_nic) wrote a recipe for Venom as a [literal murder pudding pie.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478056) If y'all in the neighborhood looking for some prime phenethylamine, please head over to her fic and make one yourself!
> 
>  
> 
> Again, thank you to [Luna Leaf](https://twitter.com/cin_nic) and [Candleaight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmesammie/pseuds/candleaight) for helping me with this chapter. Enjoy!

 

 

 

The bumpy ride home leaves little room for conversation as the adrenaline thrums through Eddie's veins. He hears the sound of sirens in the distance as he revs his bike through the cold streets, but whether these sirens are meant for himself or some other purveyor of evil, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, he manages to transport the creature and himself to his apartment without any other instances of trouble. He’s still sweating by the time he reaches shelter, but even so, his apartment is bleak with the bite of frost. The window to the alley is still wide open from before; the cold is an unwanted guest in his home.

 

Eddie peers out of the open window into the grimy alley. In the distance, the shattered glass remains undisturbed. Gooseflesh dimples along his arms, and he’s unable to determine whether the shiver originates with Venom or himself. He quickly closes the window to block out the chill.

 

“So… I’m guessing you saw that,” he says meekly.

 

They pause.

 

**_...Yes._ **

 

“Why didn’t you say something when I first woke up? I was so scared that I lost you forever...”

 

**_We were upset with you._ **

 

“Why?”

 

**_Almost killed us, Eddie! We needed to bond with you to survive, and you denied us, time and time again._ **

 

“Well, how was I supposed to know? I mean, I figured you were trying eat me or suck out my soul somehow, but I didn’t realize the attachment would be so… literal.”

 

Venom goes quiet, and the budding frustration is transmitted to Eddie through their connection. Again, it’s that simulacrum of hurt that enters his consciousness, indicating that he’s said something wrong.

 

 ** _Not… our intention,_** they finally say, with a hint of sadness bleeding into their words. **_Not trying to suck out your soul. This bond is meant to be mutually beneficial._**

 

Eddie scratches at his overgrown stubble. “What do you mean? Not to be rude, but now I’m eating for two like I’m pregnant. How is this supposed to benefit me in any way?”

 

He feels the build to their answer rise in his chest, excitement flourishing with the opportunity to showcase their abilities.

 

**_We can make you stronger, Eddie! Make up for your deficiencies. Make you do this!_ **

 

“Woah!”

 

Immediately, their obsidian tendrils emerge from his shoulder and trail toward the tip of his extremities; a molten glove forms to create bulk along his hand and arm and he turns his wrist in recognition of the borrowed strength. Eddie flexes his fingers to wield a fist, then punches the air experimentally, feeling his actions reinforced by Venom’s power.

 

“Nice! I mean. This is super, super cool, but… in what situation would I ever need this?”

 

**_FOR WHEN YOU ARE DESTROYING YOUR ENEMIES!_ **

 

“I… I mean, I guess?” He rubs his temples with his unaffected hand. “But I don't really have enemies that need to be destroyed. Here, where we live? It's way more effective to destroy someone through slander and, you know, revealing their infidelity to the masses. Verbal whiplash, that sort of thing. Less of the punchy, bitey kind of ass-kicking?”

 

Venom makes a quiet hum in deliberation. **_Don't you have enemies? People you hate, or people that hate you?_ **

 

He shrugs. “I don't think Chris Rouge counts as an enemy so much as a pain in the ass. And, well... I used to write about exposing corruption which really pissed off some people. But overall, I'm just kind of small fry.”

 

**_Don’t underestimate yourself, Eddie! We’re sure there are plenty out there who hate you!_ **

 

“Thanks.”

 

**_Yes! What about the one that destroyed your career? Dignity?_ **

 

Eddie feels his face growing warm. “Okay, maybe I do have enemies. But I’m kind of trying to be the bigger person here, sort of.”

 

 **_Not sure if it’s working,_ ** they chuckle. **_Or… what about the new competitor for your mate._ Anne. **

 

Eddie's knees almost buckle with the weight of their words, the twist in his chest so debilitating that it nearly leaves him breathless. “S-stay out of this.” His voice shakes despite his conviction.

 

**_But-_ **

 

He snaps.

 

“No, Venom! That’s a huge invasion of my privacy!”

 

The connection is twofold, because immediately, the jagged ridges of Venom’s glove begins to melt and shrink back into his skin and musculature. Eddie is left with just his arm and his sweat stained hoodie as the alien vanishes without a trace. In the midst of their horror, he hears a quiet **_sorry_ ** ripple coquettishly in the back of his mind.

 

Eddie frowns. It’s discomfiting enough to be cognizant of someone’s displeasure directed at him, but it’s even more uncomfortable now with the other party taking residence inside of his body. His insides twist with regret.

 

“Hey, look… I’m not, um, great at this. I’m just really not used to having someone just read me like an open book. And it's not that I hate it, but there’s a shit ton of things in my brain that even _I_ don’t want to deal with, much less have someone else just bring it up.”

 

A quiet whine riffles through his head.

 

“A-and I’m not saying you’re not cool, either! Your abilities are really cool! I’m just wondering if we could find a way to, you know, apply it to something less destructive. I mean, this would be super cool if I was a vigilante or something, but I’m just a normal guy who still hasn’t gotten his shit together.”

 

They still don’t respond. The corners of Eddie’s lips twitch downward; Venom’s ability to simply phase into his body to avoid a conversation is a bit like trying argue with a deaf person who can take out their hearing aids at any time. He scratches again at his stubble he tries to re-route the conversation to a new path.

 

“Hey, is this it? Just a voice in my head forever? Is this permanent?”

 

He hears the fear warping their deep voice as they finally respond. **_Y-you wish to be rid of us, already?_ **

 

“No, that's not it! This is just kind of… unnatural. I’m not sure how much I enjoy having another person inside of me. It’s so…” he waves a hand as he struggles to find a suitable word, “...close.”

 

 **_We like being inside you,_ ** they say abashedly. It’s almost a subtle beg with their intent inadvertently transmitted to their host, gently trying to convince him to let them stay. He’s unable to completely pinpoint the physical sensation, but he alludes it to warm tendrils draping across his sternum and wrapping around his ribs beneath his skin. **_Warm, Eddie, soft._ ** Venom’s tendrils emerge from his chest to caress his clavicles beneath his clothing. **_Perfect, Eddie._ **

 

“Oh-- oh god.” A rush of blood colors his cheeks and he squirms uncomfortably. He quickly claps a hand over his collarbone to halt their ministrations. “You ever heard of something called a ‘euphemism’?”

 

**_No. Eddie will teach us about ‘euphemisms’?_ **

 

“No, er, never mind then.”

 

They sulk again and gently sink their tendrils back into his chest. Eddie finally releases a bated breath, registering the discomfort he feels in his soiled clothing, and he shakes his head. His legs eventually carry him to the mildew-encrusted bathroom and he almost drops his phone when he takes note of his facsimile in the mirror.

 

**_What’s wrong?_ **

 

It’s not the emesis-laced clothing or the sweat stains that grasp his attention, but rather the projected image of Venom’s form that has set into a mask over Eddie’s head. His eyes widen, but it's familiar nacre eyespots in the reflection that dilate back in response, and when his mouth gapes at the horror, he sees glistening rows of carnivorous teeth that spring apart. From his open maw lolls a serpentine tongue, dripping with saliva.

 

“What did you do with my face?!” He frantically brings his fingers to palpate his cheeks, surprised to only feel the familiar stubble rather than the pitch pulsating in the reflection.

 

 **_Our face, Eddie,_ ** they gently correct.

 

“Oh my god. Buddy, I can’t go around town walking around like this. No wonder she called the cops!”

 

 **_Only you can see us,_ ** they reassure. **_Only you._ **

 

“Oh.” He purses his lips together, taking in the visual hallucination. “Well, can I have my face back, for now?”

 

**_Yes…_ **

 

From there, the black sinks back into his skin to reveal the tired man beneath, which really doesn't lend to any more assurance either. The pronounced eyebags, sunken cheeks and pallor has him sort of resembling one of those HD close-up shots from Ren and Stimpy.

 

“Christ,” he groans. “This isn't any better. I really _did_ get hit by the ugly bus today.”

 

**_What's an 'ugly bus’? WHY DID THEY HURT YOU?_**

 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It's an expression. Don't worry about it.”

 

**_WE WORRY, EDDIE! You need to explain your human ‘expressions’!_ **

 

“Forget it.”

 

**_You won't let us into your head! How are we supposed to learn?_**

 

“Chill out, dude! Fuck!”

 

Eddie grips the edge of the sink out of frustration, and he feels the foreign body disappear from his head to sit into his stomach instead. Their frustration percolates into Eddie's consciousness, which only serves to compound his own budding distress. He quickly rips off his hoodie and throws it to the floor, then steps out of his jeans next.

 

**_What are you doing?_ **

 

“I'm gonna take a shower.”

 

**_We help you with shower?_ **

 

“No, uh. I kind of need this for myself, okay? I need some time to think.”

 

**_Oh…_ **

 

“This is too much to take in.”

 

**_Right..._**

 

Eddie flinches when the showerhead starts raining icicles over his body, but he welcomes the refreshing cleanliness all the same. Slowly, the water heats up to a temperature that is adjacent to tolerable, and he dips his head under the steady flow. The tub has long since lost its engraved, tractional surfaces, but he stands in a way that is precariously situated between leaning on a wall and falling flat on his ass. For a while, he simply stands there in the lukewarm rain, barely registering the water as it flows across his scalp and cascades down his back. Eventually, Eddie pumps out a dollop of shampoo into his palm and begins to work it into a lather.

 

Showering… is something personal for Eddie. Sitting in a bath with a significant other is romantic, and he initially believed that the same could be translated to standing showers too. But he's had enough experience with fighting for hot water while the other stands in the cold, awaiting their turn under the tap, before he recognizes that showers are for utility and self-care; showers are solitary affairs for deep thought and reflection -- the quiet moments that build or destroy a man's quintessence, not to be shared with others.

 

He needs time to think, and he has a lot to deliberate. He only hopes the creature will stay out of his tangled mess of a brain in the meantime. He worries at his lower lip as he continues his absent-minded lather.

 

_This isn't permanent, is it?_

 

Loneliness is a beast he's come to know after months without Anne. He doesn't enjoy the loneliness, but it's familiarity that has him returning to it, too afraid to reach out to forge new bonds of any significance. But Venom's proximity is… not familiar. Nothing about them is familiar, from their voice, to their hunger, to their all-encompassing embrace. They say they're from beyond the stars, and at this point there isn't any trace of doubt. It’s strange that it doesn't trip nearly as many alarms as it should, but none of it seems natural.

 

Eddie sighs, despondent to the world. He's lost control of his life a long time ago. This is just another cabin to add to the trainwreck.

 

Except it's not really a trainwreck. Not really. Not in the typical sense anyway.

 

_Do I care?_

 

Maybe it's shock, or maybe it's depression. Or maybe Eddie has a higher capacity for rolling with the weird than the average person, but…

 

_Why doesn't this scare me?_

 

It’s not nearly as horrifying as he first envisioned it to be.

 

He doesn't hate this.

 

He --

 

Thin tendrils unfurl from the base of his neck to wind around the tips of his fingers, gently extricating his hands from the tangled mass of hair.

 

**_Eddie…_ **

 

“Huh?”

 

**_We know you didn't want us to help but… starting to damage the follicles. Please be gentle with yourself, Eddie…_ **

 

“Oh…”

 

Eddie finally relaxes his shoulders as his arms return to his side. The tendrils don't dive back into his body just yet. Instead, they move to direct the water from above to flow through his hair, carefully separating the strands to wash away the suds. When the last of it pools at the drain below, Venom extends another tendril with an imitated palm to cup some conditioner, then they gently work it into his hair.

 

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Do you know what you're even doing?”

 

 ** _Yes,_** they reply. ** _We've seen you shower before._**

 

“Ha!”

 

The laugh that bubbles from his lips is unexpected. Eddie grabs a washcloth and begins to scrub shower gel onto the rest of his body while Venom continues to comb their fingers through his hair. A sharp pain in his shoulder stops him from reaching the core of his back, right between his shoulder blades; it's the work of late nights filled with damaging postures in front of his laptop mixed with an old rotator cuff injury. Without prompting, another tendril emerges from his shoulder to accept the washcloth, and they gently scrub at the rarely-touched valley of his back.

 

Heat creeps up onto Eddie's cheeks and neck.

 

**_Is the water too warm?_ **

 

“No, it's fine. It's just…”

 

He bites down on his lower lip. Venom's tendrils halt their actions and tremble with minute waves, awaiting his words. Eddie finally sighs, breaking the silence.

 

“Venom. Look, I… I've been an ass to you and I really shouldn't be. You've been working so hard to talk to me this whole time, and when you finally got the chance to actually communicate, I haven't been very receptive. I mean, yeah, this is really new for me, but it's not any excuse for me to be a dick.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “I'm--”

 

**_\-- Already forgiven._ **

 

“Ah!”

 

He nearly chokes.

 

“Uh. Y-yeah.”

 

A pleased chuckle reverberates through his mindscape, causes the blood vessels in his cheeks to dilate further.

 

“And you're free to stay as long as you'd like, bud. I--I… I'm not kicking you out anytime soon.”

 

**_Thank you…_ **

 

From there, the tendrils begin to move again and he leans into Venom's care. They stretch their vines across his back and pulsate softly, ferrofluid on skin, sending quiet shivers to dance along his spine. Their tendrils dig deep to knead into the muscles of his shoulders, relieving the sharp ache that controls his diminished range of motion. Eddie goes weak at their languid comfort, surprised to feel so precious in the proverbial hands of another and simply accepts it with a muffled moan, pressing his head and the palms of his hands into the shower wall for support. With his pain now less debilitating, they extract their tendrils and return to cradle his broad shoulders with their body.

 

Eddie sighs as a newfound relief fills him. “Thanks...”

 

**_You are welcome._ **

 

His body sways slightly with the soothing heat, feeling all tension flow from his nerves to collectively drain away. Eddie’s eyelids begin to droop and would continue to do so, but he feels Venom shift to his hands and press fine coils into his fingertips, weaving their body along the ridges of his identity.

 

**_… Fingers are getting wrinkly, Eddie._ **

 

“Y-yeah. Alright.”

 

He turns off the water and climbs out of the tub unwillingly, draping an old towel over his body as he re-enters the cold. Venom’s limbs reach out to pull the towel closer, lightly pressing small circles of it onto his skin and and hair, helping to wick away the fine droplets of moisture. Eddie takes a moment to seek out his reflection again. The fog slowly clears to present his image, still with the slight hollowness to his features, but some of the color has returned to his skin -- most notably, the ever-present dusting of rose on his cheeks. He picks up a razor and considers shaving, but eventually returns it to the sink, not wanting to horrify the fellow inhabitant of his body just yet. In turn, Venom snakes fine tendrils through his overgrown stubble, pleased with the way the short strands of hair part to make way for the flow of their body.

 

Eddie chuckles and itches at his chin. “That kind of tickles.”

 

Quiet amusement plays through their shared bond. The fine threads of their tendrils begins to thicken, becoming denser and spreading outward to create more points of contact along his skin. This time, Eddie is prepared when Venom’s face emerges sheath his own, spreading from his jaw to nose, to eyes, to the back of his head and down his neck; the coolness of their body showing him it's real this time.

 

It’s hard not to be excited by the new appearance. Eddie opens his mouth to stick out Venom’s tongue in the mirror, entertained with the way it hangs so indolently between the sharp teeth. He digs the tips of his fingers into his jaw, burying them into the alien’s flesh to admire the supple give.

 

“Can you do more? How much of my body can you cover?”

 

Venom is likewise curious. More of their body pours out from his skin, spreading their cascading blackness down both arms as muscular sleeves. Their tendrils continue further south, dressing his chest and abdomen with liquid pitch. Eventually, they are spread too thinly and reach their limit, webbing out into thin threads that sew into his skin at the start of where his bone juts out from his hips.

 

 **“Our… best…”** they rasp. Their voice is thick with a needy masculinity, borrowing the voice from Eddie’s vocal cords and lungs. There’s an inkling of disappointment that taints their bond - not from Eddie, but emanating from the creature themself. A disappointment at their own inability to do more; the fear of being insufficient to their host. **“Not good enough…”**

 

But Eddie shakes his head and laughs. Even at the pinnacle of his powerlifting days, he’s never felt this strong, nor has he ever looked this defined. Eddie feels a bit like a child first discovering the joys of a mirror, and he flexes to enjoy the shape of the borrowed strength, simply indulging in the harmless vanity. It feels a bit like cheating, especially when he’s able to catch up to the elusive pump that no other human will ever be able to do when unassisted, but the novelty is completely worth how good it makes both him and Venom feel when formed like this, together.

 

His giddiness bubbles over uninhibited: “Oh my god, this is amazing!”

 

At his words, Eddie feels their spirit brighten within his chest. Venom smiles back in the mirror, showcasing their pearly teeth and opalescent eyes.

 

**“E-Eddie…”**

 

For the first time in a while, Eddie feels good.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:**

> Scream at me on [Tumblr](https://schadenfiend.tumblr.com/) (18+, NSFW art and reblogs, though really less of the NSFW portion now...)
> 
> Scream at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/schadenfiend) too! I've uploaded a lot more Symbrock art there, including art of the saucy variety.
> 
> Also, I love comments. I might not answer all of them because it can get overwhelming, but I do read every single one and cherish them all.

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